


The Discard Pile

by Tiberius_Tibia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Burlesque Dancer Natasha, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Man Out of Time, Mentions of Cancer, Modern Era, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Only Tony Still Has His Powers, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny!Steve, Skinny!Steve/Winter Soldier, Tattoo Artist Steve, Veteran Sam, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, alexander pierce is a terrible person, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 44,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiberius_Tibia/pseuds/Tiberius_Tibia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw this prompt on capkink: <a href="http://capkink.dreamwidth.org/1349.html?page=21#comments">I've seen a few fics where Bucky is born in the modern age and Steve is still Captain America, but I'd like a fic where it's Steve in that position instead. He finds the Winter Soldier rifling through his garbage and ends up adopting him like a dog.</a></p><p>And from that grew this ridiculous story featuring an extremely broke Steve who does post-mastectomy tattoos, burlesque dancer Natasha, her adoring boyfriend Sam, Clint Barton who is definitely not a slumlord, breast-cancer survivor Pepper and her adoring, asshole boyfriend Tony and various Hydra douchebags. And the assassin formerly known as the Winter Soldier.</p><p>There's a WIP fill for this story with fem!Steve on capkink that y'all should check out too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only Living Boy in New York

There hadn’t been many homeless people around Steve’s block lately— the temperature was dropping and there’d been an increase in enthusiasm for rousting amongst the cops. Maybe that’s why Steve noticed the man on a Monday morning, sitting back in the shadows of the alley near Steve’s shop. He was a huddled, grey man with a huddled, grey cat peeking its head out the neck of the man’s hoodie. Steve had lived in New York long enough to know that giving money to homeless people wasn’t the best use of resources in the long run, and he didn’t have much leftover after paying his bills every month. But he had a soft heart and approached the man slowly, looking as non-threatening as possible, which at his size was pretty non-threatening.

The man didn’t look at him when Steve made his usual overture of coffee and a sandwich. He rose gracefully to his feet, one arm cradling the cat against his chest, the other hoisting a battered camo-print backpack. He was wearing one thick mitten knit with an an ostentatious blue-and-white snowman pattern on his left hand. His eyes were alert. Bypassing Steve without touching him, the man strode off in the opposite direction. His walk was purposeful but unhurried. He did not look back and Steve soon lost sight of him.

Two mornings later he was back, this time watching the passersby with cool deliberation. Steve gave him a small smile, hoping the guy wasn’t shove-you-off-the-train-tracks crazy, but he seemed to be nice to his cat and that gave Steve confidence. When he made his brief grocery stop at the end of the day, he added a bag of cat food to his purchases on an impulse. He found the man tucked in his usual alley, flexing and unflexing his mittened hand. The cat was pacing around the rim of a nearby dumpster. Steve approached him with the cat food held out at arms length, not wanting to spook the man while he was backed into an alley. He set the bag down and stepped back, “For your cat. It’s a good brand.”

The man stared at him for a long time, his blue gaze unblinking. Steve shifted uncomfortably, “If you don’t want it that’s ok. Just say so and I’ll take it to an animal shelter or something.”

The man came towards Steve with precise, deliberate steps. He crouched and took the bag in his hands, palpating it like he was testing fruit. Finally he tore the top open and sifted through the dry kibble with his bare right hand. An empty plastic shopping bag appeared from somewhere in the man’s pockets and he tipped the cat food into his own bag. He knotted it tightly using his right hand and teeth and stuck the bulging bag in his knapsack, never taking his eyes off of Steve. Steve smiled, it was not returned. The man whistled once, short and low, and the cat jumped down and sidled over to him. He lifted her carefully into the knapsack, leaving it open just enough for her to see out. Then he shouldered the backpack and- _holy freaking shit_ thought Steve- leapt at least seven feet into the air and landed on the rim of the dumpster. From there he swung himself up onto the nearest fire escape and was scaling the building like a squirrel. Parkour be damned, two decades in Brooklyn and it was still like nothing he’d ever seen.

Two nights later Steve came across something he definitely _had_ seen in this neighborhood before. There’d been an epidemic of anti-Semitic graffiti sprayed over the whole neighborhood, and so far nothing had been effective at stopping it. And there they were- three scrawny skinheads standing around the beauty salon on the corner opposite Steve’s shop, paint cans in hand. He knew he should have called the police— that was the smart thing to do and Steve wasn’t dumb. But he was poor. And his crappy, second-hand cell phone didn’t have a battery that stayed charged for more than a few hours. He could have gone back to his shop and called from there, but by the time he did that and the cops got around to this unimportant crime in this unimportant area, the thugs would definitely be gone. Steve squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. None of the three were that much bigger than him, taller maybe but just as wiry, and he didn’t see any weapons.

“Knock it off guys, people work hard enough around here. No one has extra money to spend repainting their place,” he kept his tone light and reasonable, a we’re-just-chatting tone.

“Fuck off,” spat Skinhead Number One. They ignored him and continued spraying. Steve seized the leader’s elbow.

“I mean it. Cut it the fuck out. Why don’t you go do something useful for a change?”

Number One jerked his arm away and slapped Steve, open-handed, across the face hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Something useful like kicking your ass?” 

He gave Steve a shove backwards and Steve staggered into the second skinhead, largest of the three. The guy grabbed him in a half-nelson. The other two laughed and the leader sprayed fluorescent orange paint in Steve’s face. He spluttered, screwing his eyes and mouth shut. They laughed harder and Steve could tell even with his eyes shut that one of them was close right now, leaning over him. He kicked out hard and must have caught the guy in the balls. He couldn’t see it but the man groaned and swore. And then they were hitting him for real.

Steve had been beat up before— it was something of an unfortunate habit for him. But he usually got punched more than twice before his attackers lost interest. After the second blow, to his solar plexus this time, they stopped and the one holding him suddenly released him. He shoved Steve away from him and there came the sound of running feet and more punches, though none fell on him. Still blinded by the paint, Steve fell to his hands and knees on the pavement. With shaking hands, he tried to rub the it out of his eyes so he could see what was going on.

A soft cloth was pressed over his face and he reached up, briefly covering the offering hand with his own before it was snatched away. His rescuer pressed what felt like a t-shirt into Steve’s hand and let him finish clearing his eyes. The adrenaline from the fight was making him giddy and Steve almost wanted to laugh at himself, bright orange from his hairline to his chest, cleaning his face with a stranger’s _hopefully_ clean laundry. When he could see again, he saw his Mittened Homeless Ninja watching him from a few feet away. He offered the t-shirt back to him.

“Keep it,” the man said. His voice was a nice baritone, clear and a little rough. 

“Thank you,” he answered. The Mittened Homeless Ninja looked slightly embarrassed, shuffling his feet and no longer making eye contact with Steve. He turned to go. “You sure you don’t want a sandwich or something?” Steve called after him. 

The man stopped, and without turning shook his head no. He walked a few more steps then called back, “She likes the cat food.” And then he was gone.


	2. Every Glove That Laid Him Out or Cut Him

When Steve found him the next day to thank him his friend surprised him with a complete sentence, “I don’t like Nazis.” 

Steve grinned at him, “I think you’re in good company there, pal.” He offered the guy his shirt back, it was clean but the orange stains had set and would always show faintly against the heather grey cotton. His friend accepted it without another word.

They developed something of a ritual. Steve would bring the Mittened Homeless Ninja cat food, the guy would inspect it like he thought there might be a prize at the bottom, pour it into a bag of his own and leave. Once Steve brought a cat toy- some sort of dangly green feather on a string- and the man had practically taken the thing to pieces. Steve was convinced he wouldn’t have taken it if the cat hadn’t noticed and become enthralled with it. Homeless Ninja left that day scowling at Steve from behind his beard. He brought his silent friend food too, but the man never touched it— not fast food, not homemade, not package-sealed from the grocery store. Someday Steve was going to persuade the man to come into the grocery store with him, try to let him pick out his own food, but so far he’d had no luck.

Steve couldn’t tell if the guy ever slept. He’d been working long hours, walking home late at night and even past midnight he could sometimes catch the most furtive movements on fire escapes or in loading docks. It was the friendliest overture he’d gotten from Mittened Ninja so far, but Steve felt certain it _was_ deliberate and it _was_ because the guy trusted him at least a tiny bit. If he didn’t want to be seen he seen he wouldn’t be. But it warmed him to have even that little bit of trust from his erstwhile friend, and he definitely felt safer walking those streets alone at night. In fact the whole neighborhood was experiencing a downswing in crime since the night of the graffiti assholes. Steve figured there it was pretty even odds that fact was thanks to a certain local drifter.

It was the coldest night so far that year, and Steve was trying to think of a way to get Mittened Ninja some warmer clothes—he didn’t have anything that would fit a guy that size, and he couldn’t afford anything new but maybe he could hit up one of the thrift shops. Steve was a connoisseur of the thrift shops in the posher areas of the city, and last year had found a barely used Northface coat that had probably saved him from pneumonia. He looked for his friend automatically as he passed his usual alley.

At first glance, what he saw happening roused his indignant, righteous anger—his friend was being rousted, _like he needs that on top of everything else_ , until it hit him what he was actually seeing—a black SUV at the mouth of the alley, its windows blacked out. And those weren’t cops. There were four figures, men he guessed by their size, dressed in dark, non-descript but well-fitted clothes, surrounding his friend. They were attacking him, trying to force him towards the car. Mitten Ninja was holding them off remarkably well but they had billy-clubs and he was taking blow after blow to his shoulder and head. Above them the grey cat paced agitatedly along the dumpster.

Steve saw red, as literally as he’d seen that orange mist of paint sprayed at him the last time he’d been in a fight. Without further thought, he seized one of the half-empty plastic trash cans that stood next to the dumpster (it was bulky, but not particularly heavy without a full load) and heaved it at the guys. He caught them by surprise, they’d been so absorbed in their fight with his friend. The trashcan knocked two of them full on, sending them tripping over into the spilled trash. His friend took that opportunity to strike one man in the gut with his gloved left fist. There was a cracking sound and the man dropped. The fourth man was still whaling on him with the club and Steve jumped full-body onto the man's back, his fingers clawing for the man’s eyes.

From behind the man’s bobbing head, he could see the other two attackers back on their feet. Homeless Ninja had one by the throat and Steve thought he saw the flash of something metallic in the dim alley. With one of his allies in a chokehold and the other trying to dislodge Steve, the remaining man took something from his belt. _Gun_ Steve thought desperately, but he couldn’t let go and run, he just couldn’t. The attacker he was grappling suddenly slammed him back against the wall, knocking the breath out of him. Steve slipped off and landed heavily on the ground. Something in his ears crackled. They were closing in on his friend again. Still struggling to get his breath back, Steve launched himself at the nearest guy, shoving between him and his friend. The crackling noise sounded again and it wasn’t in his ears, he realized a second too late. The stun gun caught him between the shoulder blades.

For a moment he had the crazy thought that he’d been hit by a car. Every muscle in his body contracted and he jerked, stiff as a board, to the ground. The current ceased and his muscles instantly relaxed but he couldn't move. He lay limp on the ground, his heartbeat a single harp string being plucked more and more frantically. Steve tried to use his visualization techniques to relax, get his breathing under control, but the blood was pounding in his ears, in his temples. His heart felt like it was humming rather than beating. Spots formed in his vision, dancing in circles in his field of sight until they swallowed him up and everything just stopped.

  
\------------------------------------  


When he woke up he knew where he was without opening his eyes. Hospital. Nothing in the world smelled worse or more familiar to him than a fucking hospital. He opened his eyes carefully and looked himself over. Nothing looked broken, his skinny legs were stretched out under the thin blanket, no visible casts or bandages. He was hooked to a heart monitor, beeping steadily in the corner, and IV in his arm dripping out an unknown liquid. _Not a painkiller_ , he decided, his head was too clear for that. 

Steve pressed the call button. A nurse appeared— solidly built, dark skin, clever eyes. "Hey there, how you feeling?" 

"Well of all the times I've woken up in a hospital, this is actually the best I've ever felt." 

"Glad to hear it,” she said, “Can you tell me what happened?" Steve paused for a moment, he hadn't actually considered what to say about the blacked-out SUV incident. He changed the subject, ”How did I get here?" 

She gave him a look that said she knew he was stalling but she'd let him get away with it this time, "Burn marks on your back and ventricular fibrillation, means you got tased. Someone dropped you off in the ER 18 hours ago. Dark haired guy, mid-twenties, scruffy. Security cameras didn't get a good look at him but he carried you in instead of leaving you on the curb. So, Good Samaritan?”

Steve swallowed, “Must have been. Some guys were beating up a homeless guy and I got in the middle." 

Her eyebrows rose, “Some guys were out beating up homeless people with a taser? That is some Clockwork Orange bullshit, right there. You're very lucky you know. With that arrhythmia you could have died. You were in full cardiac arrest when you got here." 

"But I'm okay now, right?” he asked. She looked at him skeptically.,”You're pretty far from okay, but you don't need me to tell you that. Right now, your heart beat is stabilized, but they're not going to be happy about releasing you on your own. You could have another cardiac incident too easily, no exertion allowed, nothing that's going to put a strain on you." She left to find the doctor, who after he finally convinced her that he did not want to file a police report, repeated nearly the exact same conversation with Steve, while making zero eye contact with him. She left after a few minutes, emphasizing that they would not let him leave for another 48 hours unless he could be released into the care of a friend or relative.

Of all the goddamn times for Sam and Nat to be on the road, Steve griped to himself, settling down for an evening of dull tv and stiff hospital pillows. He must have fallen asleep without realizing, because suddenly he jerked awake. The Mittened Homeless Ninja was sitting by his bed. His face was bruised, but in the dim light it looked more like he’d been in a fight three weeks ago instead of last night. He’d lost the snowman mitten and was wearing a fuzzy green glove on that hand instead. When he saw Steve’s eyes open he leaned towards him.

“Idiot! What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed.

“I thought they were cops at first. I didn’t want them arresting you for something stupid,” he replied, “Then I realized— what were they doing? I’ve been lying here thinking about it all day and honestly all I have so far is either government conspiracy or secret club of billionaires who hunt people for sport.”

The man’s face twitched briefly and Steve suspected he was fighting not to smile. “Does that happen often?” he asked.

“It happens in movies,” Steve answered with his best innocent face. “But honestly, who are you? You’ve got crazy parkour skills, you fight neo-Nazis, you tame stray cats and now some twilight agency is trying to abduct you. What’s your deal?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Steve shrugged, “Like you said, I’m an idiot. Or at least I have a poor sense of self-preservation. And I don’t like bullies.”

The man shook his head, not unlike the way Steve’s mom used to he remembered with a pang. “You’re not an idiot.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“What you are is a punk.”

Steve laughed.


	3. I Saw A Shadow Touch A Shadow's Hand

The man rose, his smile fading. “I wanted to make sure you’d be alright before I go.” Alarmed Steve asked, “Go? Go where?”

“Those men will be back. I have to keep moving.”

“Tell me what’s going on at least, maybe I can help.”

He shook his head sadly, “No.”

Steve sighed, “Well, before you go, could you at least do me one favor? The doctor won’t let me go home without someone to make sure I don’t keel over. I just need someone to get me out the front door and then we're square.”

The man hesitated. Finally he said, “Alright.” 

“I’m Steve Rogers, by the way.” The man started to say something in reply, then closed his mouth with a small frown. He turned away and _of course_ Steve snarked to himself, went out through the window, agile as a cat.

“Hey, visiting hours start at nine!” Steve called after him, “Don’t be late, I can’t stand this place!”  
  
*************************  
The doctor clearly thought that Steve had hired some vagrant to pose as a relative to get his discharge from the hospital. And honestly she wasn’t far off the mark, Steve thought. Plus the guy frankly looked and smelled like he hadn’t had a permanent address in this decade. But he was listening carefully to all of her instructions, nodding and asking intelligent questions about what Steve could and couldn’t expect to do in the next 72 hours. Finally all the cautions had been set and all possible medical advice given— not that Steve hadn’t been dealing with his own goddamn medical issues for the past twenty-five years, thank you very much. He and the no-longer-Mittened Ninja stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The man knelt and unzipped his pack a bit, and Steve saw that he’d smuggled the cat in with him. She seemed fine, staring at them with big, light eyes, and he rose and walked after Steve towards the subway. His heart was as fine as it would ever be, but Steve had to admit if only to himself, that he hurt all over. He was bruised from the fight and the spot on his back where the taser had made contact stung like someone had laid a hot iron across his back. It was difficult to keep pace with his companion too, his heart and lungs struggling to keep their normal rhythm. They reached the subway entrance and Steve turned to shake the Mitten Ninja’s hand and wish him a reluctant goodbye.

Instead, the man continued down the stairs into the station. He paused when Steve didn’t follow and glanced back. “Where are you going?” Steve asked.

“The doctor said you needed someone to look after you for a few days.”

“Yeah," Steve said, stating the obvious, "But that was just so I could get out of there.”

“She said your heart could strain easily. Your blood pressure could drop, you could have dizzy spells—“

“I know, okay. I can take care of myself. Besides don’t you have to leave town? I thought you said those guys would come looking for you again.”

“They will. But they’ll expect me to move on. I made sure of that last night, and this place—” he gazed searchingly up at the buildings and down into the deKalb Avenue Station, “This place is important. I need to stay a little longer.” He looked so lost for a moment that Steve’s injured pride subsided and he lead his friend down into the station. 

“What’s your name anyway?” he asked as they exited in Crown Heights. Again the man hesitated, “James— Lehigh.”

When James didn't volunteer any further personal information Steve tried again. He nudged him and gestured at the backpack, "What about her?”

“Jean Harlow,” he looked a little embarrassed. Steve was beginning to suspect that the guy might be pretty damn cute under all that scruff and dirt. The one glove was strange, but at this point he wasn’t going to question it.

As they approached his building it was Steve’s turn to hesitate. He’d never had an overnight guest in this apartment; it was small and had passed the realm of untidy and into messy several weeks ago. “It’s not much,” he warned, leading James down to the basement apartment. James’ glance never stopped moving, taking in the cameras outside the building and in the entryway, the other tenants entering and leaving around them. Steve undid his three locks and opened the door.

 _Shit_ , Steve thought, how had he never before noticed how much his apartment looked like the home of a serial killer? It was a one bedroom, by which he meant that there was a closet just big enough for a mattress which he’d simply laid on the floor, not bothering with a boxspring. There was a bathroom in which he could simultaneously use the toilet, shower and sink, as all were conveniently within reach of each other. The rest was a living room/kitchen where the stove and refrigerator shared space with a battered couch. There was one tiny window at the top of the room and Steve had lined the opposite wall with as many thrift shop mirrors as he could collect to maximize the natural light. And of course there were the mannequins— three dressmaker’s busts of different sizes standing behind the couch. James stepped in and surveyed the space that Steve had made his home since his mother’s death. He stopped when his gaze fell on the mannequins.

“Those are for work,” Steve blurted, “They’re not— I’m not, I mean… they’re here for a reason.

“Okay,” said James, setting his bag down and letting Jean Harlow decide when she was ready to come out. Steve started collecting unwashed plates and cups from around the room. James moved to help him.

“Aw, you don’t have to do that,” Steve said, “I should have cleaned this place up days ago.” He and James had a brief, silent staring contest before Steve admitted defeat. Those blue eyes were _intense_. “Look, if you want to do something you can run out and get a litter box and some kitty litter. I forgot to have us stop on the way here.” He dug a twenty dollar bill out of his slim wallet and offered it to James.

“I can’t take your money.”

“Well we need a litter box, so. Do you have any money?” James was silent. “Look,” Steve continued, “Think of how much smaller my hospital bill is gonna be from not staying there another day and a half. You’re saving me hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. I can spot you for a litter box and some groceries—which incidentally you may also need to get. I think I’m out of everything.” He added the rest of his cash to the twenty.

James ground his teeth but took the money. Steve watched him go, with the majority of Steve’s remaining monthly income in his pocket, leaving Steve with just his cat and an unspoken promise not to screw him over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact- I once had Steve's postage-stamp bathroom. Picture an airline seat as the toilet, and the tray table is about where the sink was. No joke.


	4. It's a Street in a Strange World

The Asset understood what he was feeling— perspiration, rapid heart rate, hyper-vigilance even by his standards— he was afraid. He just didn’t know _why_. The fact that the man allowed him to leave unescorted almost immediately after arrival was another tic in the he’s-not-secretly-working-for-Hydra column, and that column was quite long by now. He’d found the nearest market easily from the time he spend on the rooftops and his habit of building a mental map of anywhere he went, marking entryways, back exits and likely concealment places. Now he stood inside the market, irrationally scared of the frozen foods aisle.

Steve had given him a list; eggs, milk, popcorn, peanut butter, pasta, sauce, juice, cereal— he’d written Kix and then crossed it out and added _whatever kind you like, not too sugary_. Whatever kind he liked? He wasn’t even sure of his own name and this guy thought he had a favorite cereal? The whole business felt wrong. In the back of his mind was a nagging feeling that this place was too big, there were too many choices, he should just be able to give the list to the man behind the counter and he'd be given his ma’s things— peas, bread, butter, no candy they couldn’t spare the money— he froze, trying not to scare the outline of the memory away. It vanished anyway.

He collected the things on Steve’s list, selecting the cheapest of each item as quickly as he could. It cost nearly all of the sixty dollars Steve had given him, and that worried him too. Would Steve be angry that he’d spent so much? It didn’t really matter if Steve was angry. He wasn’t Hydra, and there was nothing he could actually _do_ to the Asset. James- he corrected in his head, James James James _Jamesjamesjamesjames_. Still the feeling of having been given a task, and the possibility of failing to complete it to optimal levels, gave him a sick feeling.

When he returned to the cozy den that was Steve’s home, Steve had cleaned up the dishes and dirty clothes and was gently washing the cat in a plastic tub on the kitchen table. He’d removed his button down, leaving just his undershirt, and wore yellow gloves up to his thin elbows. Jean Harlow tolerated the shampoo being lathered into her pale fur with obvious displeasure, fixing James with wide, accusing eyes when he entered. Steve looked up.

“You’re back!” he smiled, “Can you put the cold stuff in the refrigerator? I’m almost done with her.”

As James stepped carefully around him to reach the icebox, Steve continued, “No offense, but she really needed a bath. I think she might actually have a little Siamese in her, now that you can really tell what color she is.”

James didn’t know what to say or do next, he set the bag of remaining goods on the table beside the tub and stood biting his lip uncertainly. Steve watched him for a minute then said, “You can take a shower if you want. This place is crappy but you would not believe the hot water we get. The landlord put in one of those high-efficiency water heaters last year.”

It was phrased as an option not an order. He followed it anyway. The water was wonderfully hot. After, he borrowed Steve’s razor although he had to stand in the shower and lean over to look in the mirror since there wasn’t room for him to stand comfortably in front of the sink. He checked for pomade but there wasn’t any. His hair was too long for it anyway, and he wondered why he'd thought he should need such a thing. It was awkward, dressing in the cramped, steamy bathroom. He’d forgotten to bring a change of clothes in so had to redress in his old things. The glove had fallen off the hook on the back of the door and was slightly damp. He put it on anyway.

When he stepped out Steve stared at him briefly with his big eyes. “You can us my room to change, it’s kinda hard to do in the bathroom.”

He liked Steve’s room. The mattress on the floor made him pause, calling up the ghosts of other small rooms where he slept on the cold floor, sometimes with a blanket but usually not. This was different though, it was made like a proper bed and there were at least four blankets folded at the foot of the bed. One of them had a Mickey Mouse pattern. The walls were badly in need of repainting, but Steve had covered them with sketches and a few posters with torn edges. The posters were all of things he didn't recognize. It was a nice room, he thought. The whole place was nice; it oozed with Steve’s personality and was very defensible.

James changed quickly into a clean hoodie and pants, and the leather shooting glove he’d been wearing all those months ago, and rejoined Steve in the kitchen. Jean Harlow sat in middle of the living room floor, correcting Steve’s bathtime work with her rough tongue. The litter box had been set up by the door and Steve had set out two bowls for her on his limited counter space. They ate plates of pasta together—not spaghetti, a kind he couldn’t name, but Steve had trouble with spaghetti— while Steve asked him kind, easy questions that made James very nervous. After supper, it occurred to him that he was meant to be minding Steve’s health. Really the guy should probably have spent the day in bed, not washing a cat and cleaning house, but James suspected that keeping him on bedrest would not be an easy task. 

He could at least check Steve’s heart rate, and insisted on doing so despite Steve’s protests. Two fingers at the pulse point in Steve’s neck, where the slightly stubbly skin of his jaw gave way to the smooth skin of his throat. Steve was pleasantly warm to the touch. He lost count twice before he decided that Steve’s pulse felt strong and steady enough. His fingertips seemed unusually sensitive while he held them gently against Steve and the flesh and blood hand tingled even after they broke contact. 

Steve didn’t have a television, and he had some work to do after dinner. James was ready to argue with him about working but Steve insisted that all he was going to do was sketch and answer a few emails. They settled on the couch together. He offered James a book, which James pretended to read until Steve rose and announced that he was going to bed. There were plenty of blankets, but Steve only had one pillow- the one on his bed- and James refused to steal that from him.

“Sorry it's not more comfortable,” Steve said apologetically, tucking the blankets in on the couch.

“’s more comfortable than anywhere I’ve been in a while.” Steve smiled at that and wished him goodnight. 

James stretched out on his back. He was in fact, more comfortable than he had been in a long, long time. And that realization too made him nervous. Jean Harlow eventually climbed onto his chest, and he spent the night stroking her back and staring up at the dark ceiling.


	5. A Man Gets Tied Up To the Ground

After James left, Steve spent ten minutes frantically tidying the place up. He shoved all his dirty laundry into the designated laundry garbage bag in his bedroom, rinsed the dishes, scrubbed the dried toothpaste out of the sink and realized at the end of it that he’d worn himself out and now had no energy left to take the garbage out. He flopped on the couch, his heart stuttering awkwardly. The cat leapt up beside him.

“No offense kitty, but you smell like garbage.” She ignored him and stretched out to her full length. He gave himself a few minutes of mindful breathing before hoisting himself back off the couch. If James was going to sleep on the couch, he didn’t want it covered in dirty cat fur. Clean cat fur he could deal with. He filled a plastic bin with a few inches of warm water and retrieved a half-empty bottle of Johnson’s baby shampoo and a wash cloth. Jean Harlow let him pick her up happily enough, draping herself against his chest and purring. She was less happy about the bath. Back in high school, a thousand years ago, Peggy had spent a summer volunteering at an animal rescue and she’d taught him how to hold a cat firmly but gently like a mama cat would. Steve silently thanked her now. Grime turned the water grey but underneath it was soft, light grey fur and thankfully no sign of fleas.

James returned just as he was about half way through, with everything Steve had sent him for. He accepted the offer of a shower readily enough, and Steve was not prepared for a damp, clean-shaven matinee idol to emerge from his tiny bathroom. It was a good thing he knew the guy’s name or he’d have started thinking of him as Hot Mittened Ninja. He looked absurdly good for someone in nothing but some worn-out sweats. James still wore his left glove, even after changing and Steve fairly itched to ask him about it. 

He distracted himself by making small talk over dinner, where James had found his cat, how long he’d had her, if the grocery store had been busy that day. His guest responded to each question but never seemed to engage in the conversation. He offered nothing but a direct answer to whatever he’d been asked. Steve worried that maybe the guy was tired of him, only putting up with him for a bed and a meal—which would be fine, but Steve had felt that climbing in his hospital window signaled a deeper investment than just a place to crash. When James rose from the table after dinner and knelt in front of Steve, placing two fingers of his right hand under Steve’s chin it made his breath catch. 

“Breathe normally,” he ordered Steve. _Right_ Steve thought, having those gorgeous fingers on his throat and those gorgeous eyes carefully reading his face was exactly the way for him to keep his heart rate down. He seemed to take along time feeling Steve's pulse. Finally James rose, “Good. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Steve lied. He was starting to feel exhaustion creeping on again. He faked his way through a bit of work so as not to look too weak and fragile, but was grateful when James accepted the offer to make up the couch for him only half an hour after dinner. Steve shut his bedroom door that night with a warm, alien feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with being tased.

He slept deeply that night deep but he woke up before 6 a.m. feeling like parts of his body had been replaced with metal piping. With jerky movements he rose and walked to the bathroom, stiff-legged and stiff-armed and stiff-everything-else. His bones hurt and the spot between his shoulder blades where the darts had hit him itched like hell. James was already awake. He sat up when he saw Steve mincing gingerly to the medicine cabinet and was on his feet in an instant.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Steve winced, “Just my stupid body reminding me how much it hates me.” He took out a tube of burn cream and immediately realized his dilemma. It would be hard to reach the spot on his back on a good day, with his arms and shoulders a bright eggplant color and refusing to bend it would be impossible. Without asking, James took the tube from him.

“Can you take your shirt off?” he asked Steve. Steve flailed for a moment like a seal trying to brush its teeth before admitting defeat. He’d gotten the t-shirt over his head yesterday after a shower with minimal discomfort but this morning it might as well be a straitjacket. “I’ll have to rip it,” James took hold of the bottom hem, “Okay?”

“Fine, whatever.” This was possibly the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him. His body had embarrassed and failed him plenty over the years, but nothing like having the disgustingly beautiful mysterious stranger he was trying to rescue have to undress him, for the worst, most un-sexy reasons, like a stubborn toddler. The shirt ripped neatly up the back and James helped him slide it off his arms. He made an angry hiss, like Jean Harlow might, when he saw the burns and rubbed the cream in gently. After helping Steve redress in a button-down and jeans—thank god the boxers he’d slept in were clean enough to wear the rest of the day—James made him sit with a hot pack on the worst of his stiff joints while he poured cereal for them both.

Desperate to reclaim some dignity, and not spend the whole day being fussed over by his guest, Steve invited James to follow him to work. They rode the subway in companionable silence, James glaring down anyone who gave Steve a sidelong look for ostensibly being a young, able-bodied guy taking up a subway seat. 

They reached his shop, which still didn’t have a sign because it didn’t have a permanent name yet— Steve had never quite managed to settle on one. His apartment may have been a piece of shit that he didn’t give a damn about, but this place- Steve loved this place. He was still arranging things, the artwork hadn’t been hung yet and he wanted to improve the lighting, but he was proud of it. The tattoo chair was the best he could afford, everything was perfectly clean and smelled faintly chemical. This place was the last good thing he had left. 

Steve flipped the lights on and set his messenger bag down at his desk. He turned, eager to show James around, maybe do a little subtle bragging about his mad skills, and stopped. James’ back was pressed up against wall. His face was grey and shiny with sweat. He stared at Steve with wide-blown, horrified eyes, his jaw working tensely. Confused, Steve took a step toward him and James fled. There was a splintering sound, and Steve saw that he’d crushed the door handle in his flight. Outside, there was no sign of him anywhere in the morning rush of pedestrians.  
  
*********************  
  
There was no room for thought. As he ran images crashed over him like rolling surf, the next one beating him down before he’d recovered from the previous: Steve approaching him with a smile that first day—the cryo chamber like an iron coffin—the van coming for him two nights ago—Steve gently washing his cat—the chair in that back room that Steve had revealed, leaning back waiting for him—trays of needles and instruments he couldn’t name—Steve injured, defending him—another chair and the men who’d forced him into it—pain and panic and guilt. He crouched behind a dumpster and rocked on his heels, his face buried in his arms. It was over. 

He could try to run again, maybe he would get out of the city. But he’d eaten Steve’s food, slept under his roof— whatever they needed to give him to ensure his capture had already been given. And he’d taken it, desperate for somewhere to stop. They’d baited him with this tiny rescuer and he’d fallen for it. James didn’t even have the energy to be angry. There was no room for anything but the dread of what they would do to him now. If he kept running it would be worse, so much worse. Shaking, he pulled himself to his feet and walked slowly back to Steve’s apartment to wait.


	6. He Gives The World Its Saddest Sound

By the time Steve returned home late that afternoon he was well and truly furious. At first he had been alarmed and gone after James. But twenty minutes of fruitlessly combing the streets turned up nothing and he doubted he’d find James if the man didn’t want to be found. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what had gone wrong. Then he’d returned to his shop and discovered the extent of the damage to his door. The glass was cracked, the frame and lock crushed by James’ grip. He didn’t have time to ponder how crazy it was that a guy who could crush steel like that would be afraid of anything, let alone him— he had to get the lock fixed before the end of the day or risk more vandalism and theft. Spending the rest of the day phoning, waiting for, and then paying locksmiths and repairmen left Steve in a less than positive mood.

He descended the stairs and spotted a familiar figure outside his door, “What the fuck? It cost me $200 to get the stupid door fixed after you broke it. Thanks a lot.” As he came closer his anger evaporated. James huddled outside his door, holding himself like all his bones might fall apart if he let go. Steve paused, remembering how strong this guy was, the indents of fingers gouged in the metal doorframe. But James looked so despairing that Steve couldn’t be afraid of him. “What happened this morning?”

James shut his eyes tightly before he spoke, “I’m sorry. I’m ready… for what comes next.”

“What comes next?”

“The chair,” James looked up at him, “I’m ready for my punishment.”

Appalled, Steve dropped to his knees in front of James,“Somebody really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

“Please, I’m ready to go back.” His breathing is coming rapid and shallow— panic breathing. A thing Steve recognized all too easily. He held a hand out to James and tugged him to his feet.

“C’mon, let’s go inside.” James followed, unspeaking and obedient as Steve steered him inside and guided him to the couch. Jean Harlow wove herself solicitously between their ankles, but James grimly ignored her. Steve sat facing him on the couch and placed his large, warm palm over the other man’s sternum.

“I need you to take a deep breath in through your nose.” James’ chest rose accordingly. “And let it out slowly,” Steve counted three as James exhaled, “Good. Again.” He set an easy pace, the two of them breathing in tandem. They did nothing but breathe together for a few minutes. Gradually, James shut his eyes again, but lightly this time, not screwed shut like before. Steve kept his voice low, “I’m not like them—whoever it is you’re afraid of, I’m not one of them.”

“That place you brought me, what was it?”

“It’s a tattoo parlor, I own it,” the answer didn’t seem to be enough on its own and Steve rose, “Here, let me show you.” He took his battered laptop out of his bag and pulled up the website Sam had built for him. “See?” Steve turned the screen towards James.

The photos were listed chronologically because, like everything else in his life, Steve lacked the energy to arrange them the way he liked. The oldest stuff was pretty typical : chest pieces, sleeves, stand-alones done with Steve’s infinite patience, detail and perfectionism. Then came the bi-lat tattoos he’d done some linework or shading on, learning the ins and outs of scar tissue and how it took ink. The next set were all ones he’d done on himself, over the scars on his ribs and legs. “This one’s yours. I saw it this morning,” James pointed to the photo of the scar on Steve’s calf where they’d realigned his tibia, transformed into a ladder covered with tiny, intricate climbers. He kept scrolling, “These are amazing. How did you learn this?”

Steve blushed. “I’m ok. I started tattooing during art school, regular stuff. Then my mom got sick and…” he laughed bitterly, “You spend enough time in waiting rooms or recovery rooms and you’ll talk to anybody about anything. A bunch of the other patients talked about after— how they looked, how they wanted to look. Mom met this one woman in support group who had this awesome chest piece, it was a pair of wings that started on her back and came up like they were wrapped around her. When the doctors scheduled mom’s surgery, she asked me if I’d do one for her afterwards. It was the last thing I ever saw her get really excited about. So. I had scars of my own to practice on and I followed this guy Erik around until he let me train with him. He’s been doing scar cover-ups for decades.”

“What did you give her?” 

“Nothing. It was too late, before she was healed enough the cancer was everywhere. But I wanted to keep doing it, you know?”

“Yes,” James’ eyes were painfully bright, “This is the most perfect thing anyone can do.”

“Not really,” Steve’s eyes were tearing but he pretended they weren’t, “It’s not like saving lives or anything.”

James shook his head, “You let people look at themselves and be proud of what they see. You take what makes them feel ugly and weak and make it beautiful.” 

He clicked through the most recent of Steve’s work: bi-lat, no reconstruction with a mushroom cloud covering from collarbone to navel, left side, no reconstruction with an elephant’s head across her abdomen, the trunk stretching up over the scarred area, bi-lat with reconstruction, Starry Night-esque swirls across the reconstructed breasts, right-side, lumpectomy, a line of sea turtles heading towards the moon, the indents of the scarring making up their footprints, bi-lat with reconstruction, two lacy hearts like Victorian Valentines over each breast. James stared at them like each picture really was a miracle.

Watching his face, Steve felt all the awful things he swallowed everyday threaten to come foaming out. Guilt, grief, anger—his own personal cocktail of misery. “I could do more,” he choked, “If I took regular clients still, people I could charge regular fees from, I could do more pro-bono stuff. But sometimes I get so _angry_ at people, for no real reason. And sometimes I can’t make myself get out of bed. So I do one of these every few months, and they always insist on paying. I feel like shit taking money from them, ‘cause I know how high their own bills must be. But I have so much fuckin’ debt to pay off, I wouldn’t be able to live here if my friend Clint didn’t own the building. The shop's the only thing I have left and I'm so scared I'm gonna lose it.”

He stopped, he was crying for real now and crying set off his asthma. James had laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder, heavy and warm. Not looking at him, Steve reached his own cold, sweaty hand up to meet it.

“Don’t,” James said, “You don’t have to do more.” Gingerly, as though he wasn’t certain Steve would allow it, he reached his arm around Steve’s thin shoulders and squeezed him. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” he whispered in Steve’s ear. It was his good ear, but Steve thought he would have heard it no matter what. He put his arms around James in return and leaned his head against his friend's shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading! If you're interested in learning more about mastectomy tattoos I strongly recommend [Stuff Mom Never Told You Podcast: Mastectomy Tattoos](http://www.stuffmomnevertoldyou.com/podcasts/mastectomy-tattoos/) and [P.Ink](https://www.facebook.com/PersonalInk)\- an organization that matches mastectomy patients with tattoo artists who specialize in scar tissue tattooing and crowdsources the cost of the tattoos.
> 
> bi-lat: Bilateral mastectomy (both breasts)  
> lumpectomy: aka breast conserving surgery or wide excision surgery, removal of a portion of the breast.
> 
> reconstruction: post-mastectomy surgery, a plastic surgeon creates a breast shape using an artificial implant (implant reconstruction), a flap of tissue from another place on your body (autologous reconstruction), or both. Reconstructed breasts typically lack nipples, which often have to be removed during the mastectomy. There are prosthetic nipples available, but they don't feel particularly realistic and are always erect. Some women opt for tattoos of nipples while others who choose tattooing pick an image to cover the nipple area or whole breast. As of right now, tattooing is typically not covered by health insurance although some plastic surgeons include nipple tattooing as part of the reconstruction- these are usually done in office, sometimes not even by tattoo artists.
> 
> Anyway, not trying to turn this fic into a biology lesson or anything, I just think these tats are totally awesome and life-affirming and I wish they were more widely available.


	7. Let Us Be Lovers, We'll Marry Our Fortunes Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be 200 words of sex and then actual plot. Instead it turned into 2000 words of sex and plot has been rescheduled for tomorrow.
> 
>  
> 
> Also there's a tiny hint of possible past non-con if you squint, because Bucky's memory is incomplete.

James knew he had no right to hold Steve like this. There was such a heady mixture of sorrow and delight coursing through him that he felt drunk. The dawning realization that he wasn’t going back to Hydra, that Steve was exactly what he seemed made James’ blood fizz like champagne. But it wasn’t right that someone as bright and good as Steve should feel lacking, should make such broken sounds. He wanted to wrap himself around Steve like a suit of armor, he wanted to hoist Steve on his shoulders and carry him through streets of cheering crowds, he wanted to give Steve a brush and let him paint the whole world to his liking. 

He could do none of those things, instead he turned his head and kissed the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve pulled back, letting out a surprised laugh. James opened his mouth to apologize, but then Steve’s own mouth was sealed over his and Steve slipped into his lap as naturally as Jean Harlow ever had. Steve’s thin forearms snaked around the back James’ skull, forcing them infinitely closer together. For several moments they simply kissed, sharing the same oxygen and making the hungry noises of people who haven’t been kissed in far too long. Then Steve broke the kiss and whispered, “Bedroom. Now.”

Without thinking, James slid his left arm under Steve’s lean, little ass and stood. Steve instinctively wrapped his legs around James and in a few strides they were in Steve’s tiny bedroom. Steve flopped on his back onto the mattress with its soft, jersey sheets and tugged James insistently down on top of him. He slung one thigh over James and through the denim James could feel the bony jut of Steve’s pelvis. He was hard against Steve, and that too made him light-headed like he’d had more liquor than he should have. Steve trailed sharp, biting kisses from his ear to his chin. Those thin, sensitive fingers danced their way to the hem of James’ shirt.

“Don’t,” James pleaded, “Please, let me leave it on.”

Steve nuzzled his cheek against James’ and murmured, “It’s fine. You know there’s nothing you can show me that will make me not want this. But we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.” James let out a shuddering breath of relief. “Okay if I take mine off?” Steve asked, and James nodded.

He helped Steve shrug out of his button down. For a moment he held himself on his elbows, gazing down at the fine boned torso beneath him, memorizing each scar and birth mark. Steve blushed a little under the scrutiny. “How ‘bout these?” he asked, toying with the button on James’ fly, “Can these come off?” James nodded. Steve unzipped him and helped shimmy the jeans and boxers down to his knees, freeing his cock.

Eyes bright, Steve wrapped a hand around him and stroked firmly. “James,” he chanted, “James, James, James…”

“Bucky- ” he whispered, “Could you call me Bucky? Please Steve?” 

Steve smiled warmly at him, a nothing-on-earth-can-bother-me-now sort of smile, “‘Course I can. Bucky.” He kept stroking, easing his thumb across the slit of Bucky’s cock, spreading the precum. Bucky mewled and shook his head—it was too much, too much attention, too much feeling. He couldn’t be in that place by himself, he didn’t deserve to.

“You too,” he growled pawing at Steve’s jeans. He dragged the faded fabric down to Steve’s knees, kissing a trail from Steve’s chin, down his neck and over his sterum all the way to the treasure trail of blonde hair leading down between the sharp V of his hipbones. He paralleled the kisses with feather-light touches of his hands— one gloved, one bare—from those thin shoulders, to his nipples, finally seizing Steve’s hips with the minimum of strength needed to hold him down. Bucky lapped at Steve’s cock and the insides of his thighs— this far down on the mattress his legs bumped against the wall, so he bent them, crossing his ankles like a kid flopped on the bed with a favorite book.

Steve pouted when Bucky slid his own cock out of Steve’s reach, but he was soon too preoccupied for that. When Bucky took the head of Steve’s penis in his mouth and hollowed his cheeks Steve began to thrash. Not just his hips— Steve wasn’t consciously trying to fuck his throat— Steve’s whole body tossed and arched, his heels pressing against Bucky’s back. He was gasping out nonsense in between invocations of Bucky’s name.

“‘Snuf, ung—Buck. Need you, ‘cmere. Too. Good. You. Too,” he sat up abruptly and grabbed Bucky’s shirt. Alarmed, Buck glanced up at him. But Steve wasn’t pulling the shirt off, he was pulling Bucky. He wrapped his hands around one of Bucky’s massive thighs and tugged. Bucky complied and shifted around until they were nose-to-groin on the mattress, the Mickey Mouse blanket bunched by his head, Steve still leaning against the pillows. On his end, Steve set a slow, steady pace of deep suction while trailing his fingernails ever-so-gently across Bucky’s thighs. The sensation threw Bucky off his game, and he buried his face against Steve’s own slender thighs for a moment.

He recovered and distracted himself from the startling pleasure of Steve’s cold nose pressing against his balls by swallowing Steve down to the root. Steve made an unstifled noise of pleasure at that, and Bucky felt a rush of gratitude that they were safe in the basement with no one on the other side of the wall to be quiet for. A splinter in his mind twinged when he felt Steve’s cock hit the back of his throat, a flash of _and-where-did-you-learn-to-do-that-so-well_ hissed in his hindbrain in some language that wasn’t English. He quashed the thought by burying his face in Steve’s groin, letting the taste and scent of him be the only things he allowed in. Steve was leaking against his tongue, the taste bitter and salty and real.

Above him, or below him, or wherever— Steve had erased all the cardinal directions until there was only them, a little compass with two points— Steve had taken Bucky as far as he probably could in this position. Jolts of pleasure shot through Bucky’s cock, his balls, up into the small of his back. He wanted to see that lovely mouth stretched around him, see if Steve’s eyes were watering, if his face got as red as when he blushed. Another sign lit up in his head saying: mind his breathing, mind his breathing, dumb little punk could literally choke himself on your dick so mind his breathing. 

But Steve was still making small movements against him; curling and uncurling his toes. He pulled off of Bucky with an obscene pop, “You can come, Buck. I’ve got you.” He rolled his palms across Bucky's spit-wet cock while he waited for Bucky’s answer. Bucky shook his head without taking his mouth off Steve, he narrowed his eyes and thought _you first_ in Steve’s direction. The blonde seemed to hear him because he smirked and said, “Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” Grinning, he took Bucky back down as far as he could and sucked hard. And then it was on. Bucky could feel Steve laughing around him as they each fought to make the other fall apart first.

They both fought dirty; Bucky made the most of his suppressed gag-reflex and used his gloved left hand to take Steve’s balls in a grip that was just firm enough to drive a man crazy. Steve left possessive bites all along the inside of Bucky’s quivering thighs, his hands still wrapped perfectly around Bucky’s shaft. Everything was a seesaw between what-can-I-make-him-feel and oh-god-what-I’m-feeling. Steve’s balls tightened in Bucky’s hand and he thought he’d won. But then Steve slid the pad of his thumb, calloused from all that time holding a pen or a tattoo gun, over the head of Bucky’s cock, dragging along the slit and he lost it. 

Steve took him back in his mouth when Bucky started to come, swallowing the rest of it down. Bucky’s own noises of pleasure were muffled around Steve’s cock. Steve suckled at Bucky until the spurts ceased and Bucky began to mewl. He looked down at Bucky with a warm, almost smug expression and said, “I’m almost there babe, finish me? Please?” Bucky mewled again and shook his head against Steve. His brain felt like it was floating somewhere a few feet above his skull. “Aw baby,” Steve gentled him, “I know you can do it.”

Curling over to reach him, the two of them nestled together like twins in the womb, Steve touched Bucky’s face. He stroked the stubbled jaw, the dark, sweaty hair. Bucky began to suck again. “That’s it baby, so good,” murmured Steve. He trailed his artist’s fingers over Bucky’s cheek and on an impulse, Bucky let the head of Steve’s cock bulge out, letting Steve feel himself in Bucky’s mouth. Steve shuddered. His eyes screwed shut and he came, winding his fingers deep into Bucky’s hair and hanging on and Bucky held him through it. He released Steve’s cock and laid his head on Steve’s hip, watching his friend’s breathing settle. It wasn’t a very comfortable vantage point but he felt no desire to move.

It was Steve who eventually moved, wriggling so that he was facing the same way as Bucky, both their heads at the foot of the bed. They drifted for a moment, Steve’s head pressed into Bucky’s shirt. His pale skin and golden hair stood out clearly against the black cotton. Steve made happy little humming noises, smoothing his hand up and down Bucky’s arm. Bucky smiled at him. 

Abruptly, Steve sat up and began digging around the edges of the mattress. Bucky eyed him with concern, until he produced a half-full water bottle. He offered Bucky the first sip. While Bucky drank, Steve fished the pillows out from under their feet and tugged the blankets down from behind them. He took a sip of water himself and said, “When I was a kid we used to think that sleeping upside down in the bed would make it snow.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope,” Steve said, cuddling up against Bucky again, “You know, sex isn’t a contest.”

Bucky smirked, “It can be.”

“In that case you can represent America in the Sex Olympics.”

“Yeah, but you beat me,” Bucky protested, blushing.

“That was a fluke, you’ve got the stamina.”

“Jerk,” Bucky said.

“Punk,” Steve answered. Bucky swatted him with a pillow, it was a strange action he thought, but one he felt like he’d done before. The odd combination of aggression and playfulness gave him a painful feeling in his midline. “Hey,” Steve said, “Pillow fights before sex, not after.”

“Okay, what comes after? I feel like I should be having a cigarette.”

Steve wrinkled his nose, “Not with me you shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky hastened to apologize, “I don’t really smoke, it was just—a feeling.”

“S’okay,” sighed Steve, “Pick something else. If you let me up I can offer you a post-coital pudding cup.”

“Nah,” said Bucky, “Just this.” He closed his eyes and rested his chin in Steve’s soft hair, Steve relaxed against him, “Just stay right like this.”


	8. I've Got Nothing To Do Today But Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of some plotness that is being kind of sticky in terms of who comes in where and who knows what at what point- but there will be regular updates and Nat, Sam, and Clint will turn up soon.

“So why Jean Harlow?” Steve murmured sometime later, craning his neck up to look at Bucky. 

“She was my favorite when I was a kid," said Bucky, "I was thirteen and there was this one picture I musta seen five times—she’s in the jungle and in one part she’s takin’ a bath in a rain barrel, right in front of Clark Gable. I thought she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen,” he glanced down at Steve, “Til you, a’course.” 

Steve laughed and punched him lightly on the arm. Still, he thought, it was kind of a strange thing to say, and an odd choice of movie star to crush on at that age, when most of Steve’s classmates had been lusting over Jessica Alba.

*******************************************  


Getting re-accustomed to happiness was so easy Steve didn't even have time to be scared of it. He was like the proverbial frog in a pot of slowly boiling water, only instead of not noticing himself die, he didn’t notice himself start to enjoy things, to anticipate things, to want things. There were still the mysteries surrounding Bucky (why anyone would choose to be called Bucky over James or Jamie for starters). But Steve was so content with what he already had, and probing deeper always caused Bucky genuine pain, that he left it alone. Bucky still wore the glove and a long sleeve shirt—even during sex, but the sex they had was frequent and fantastic and because they both decidedly wanted it. That was one conversation he had forced with Bucky, the uncomfortable you-don’t-owe-me-anything-especially-not-sex talk. Because as much as he enjoyed their games of who could make the other come first, Steve had noticed that Bucky wouldn’t let the focus be solely on him. Ever. Bucky had laughed and shrugged and said he’d been like that in bed for as long as he could remember.

The kept up their ridiculous competition; Steve was the champion at getting Bucky off with his mouth, but Bucky- _holy shit_ Steve thought, the guy had like _no_ refractory period. And it was true, Steve could fuck Bucky until they were both spent and panting and five minutes later he’d feel the tell-tale swelling of Bucky getting hard against him again. It embarrassed him at first, not being able to keep up with his lover. Steve knew he was good at sex— he was considerate, imaginative, open-minded. He knew how to make it last. But he seldom had the energy for more than one round a night; something about that much exertion left him light-headed, and not in a good way. In the past he’d dated a few guys who took it personally, one even talked him into trying an ecstasy/viagra combo that would _“Make everything so much better, trust me—you gotta try it.”_ It had been pretty fun, but he wasn’t about to make a habit of it just to please some guy who he’d already begun to suspect was kind of an asshole.

James- Bucky, he corrected himself- had seemed equally embarrassed the first few times he’d been so obviously ready to go again while Steve was still floating down from the ceiling. But they’d figured it out. Now, at times like those, Steve’s favorite thing was just to lie back, or on his side and let Bucky rub off against him. The best part was that doing that left Bucky a contented, boneless pile beside him, like all he wanted in the world was just to lie beside Steve.

They were good out of bed too. Steve finished a design earlier than scheduled and since the client hadn’t planned to fly to New York until the next month, he went to the next name on his waitlist and began the process of interviewing, getting to know each other, her story and what she envisioned for herself. Bucky came to the shop warily those first few days, but he seemed alright once he’d looked the place over. He spent hours stalking around, inspecting the security of the building before he was able to feel truly alright there. Not content to simply hang out, he helped make the place more like the badass tattoo parlor Steve had always imagined; hanging art, painting over the original institutional eggshell with vibrant blue and red, and installing the fancy LED lights that had been sitting in their box for months.  
They went out to Luna Park together, Steve sketching the carousel as inspiration for new commission, while Bucky alternately paced the boardwalk and stared out at the ocean. When he wasn’t helping Steve he spent a lot of time taking walks. No where in particular, he’d said, just exploring the borough. One night, Bucky turned up at closing time brandishing a wad of bills. His eyes twinkled, his smile twinkled, everything twinkled—he looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

“What is that?” Steve asked, locking the door behind him.

“That is $1400,” said Bucky, “For you.” Steve took the money gingerly, like there might be a dye packet hidden inside.

“First thing: don’t wave that kind of cash around on the street. I know you could kick anyone’s ass who was unlucky enough to mug you but it’s cold and I would like to get home sooner than later. Second: you wanna tell me where you got that?”

Bucky pulled face, “I didn’t steal it. Jerk.”

“I didn’t say that,” Steve held his hands up placatingly, “But _this_ , this I need to know.”

“Fine, follow me.” Bucky led him down streets Steve was familiar with but spent little time on and stopped abruptly at the corner a few blocks from Steve’s shop. “See that bar over there?”

Steve looked. It was a pretty unimpressive sports bar. “Uh, yeah.”

“I can’t go in there anymore.” At that moment four large, angry-looking men exited the bar, one noticed Steve and Bucky staring. “Okay, time to go.” Bucky ran off in the opposite direction, dragging Steve along with him.

Shouts of “Where’d he go? Where’d the son-of-a-bitch go?” followed them. Steve was getting out of breath and the men were getting closer. _Crap_ Bucky was going to have to beat up some more guys because of Steve and his useless body. Bucky turned his head and saw Steve’s chest heaving. The men were just around the corner. Instead of turning to fight them, Bucky pulled Steve into the next alley and made a graceful leap for the fire escape. Hanging by his knees, he held out his hands to pull Steve up behind him. Steve gave him an exasperated expression and grabbed Bucky’s hands. As the clambered up, hanging on to first wrists, then forearms, than shoulders Steve felt an odd difference between the two arms. The left arm felt strange and hard, and Steve wondered if Bucky had a prosthesis. But his hand worked perfectly. The whole thing was puzzling.

Breathing hard, he looked at Bucky, “Usually I’m the one people are chasing. Who were those guys?”

“Some bozos who aren’t as good at pool as they think they are,” said Bucky smirking, “See, I didn’t do anything illegal. And there’s no harm done.”

“Admit it, you just wanted to show off,” Steve smiled in spite of himself, “Jerk.”

Bucky preened a little, then looked up at him with a hint of shyness in those stupidly blue eyes, “But you’ll take the money?”

“Sure Buck,” said Steve. They walked home hand-in-hand, and Steve without really thinking about it, stood on Bucky’s left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the scene Bucky's talking about: [Red Dust- Barrel Scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSTFagCpsAM)
> 
> 1932, pre-code Hollywood, pretty racy ~waggles eyebrows~


	9. Poorboys and Pilgrims With Families

Steve sat bent over his current client, Leonard Cohen playing in the background, Bucky sitting in the corner with his feet up reading A Confederacy of Dunces. Steve badly wanted everyone who came to him to feel safe, respected, _listened to_ so he always asked who (if anyone) they were comfortable having around during the procedure. Some women wanted the finished piece to be a surprise to their partners, some had gotten so used to being prodded and stared at they didn’t care anymore, some even felt like there was nothing left worth looking at so what was one more pair of eyes? Georgina Angle was 55, a film critic with five published books and one child. She’d had a double mastectomy, no reconstruction and she said she kind of liked the punk-rock vibe Bucky gave the place with his black clothes and shaggy hair. Steve was finishing her tat—the dancers of death from the end of The Seventh Seal, in silhouette across her chest. 

“Let me know if you need a break,” he said, scrutinizing her face for any sign of pain.

“Please, I can take a lot more than this,” she scoffed.

“Yeah Steve,” piped Bucky, unhelpfully, from the corner, “She’s a tough cookie.”

“And please let me know if you want him kicked out at any time,” Steve smiled sweetly at her.

She laughed just a little, trying to keep still, “He’s alright. It’s nice to be someplace that doesn’t feel like a goddamn doctor’s office.”

“That’s good,” said Steve, “I thought about keeping the decor more, I dunno- clinical. Thought maybe that way insurance companies would look more kindly on it.”

Georgina shook her head, “Hon, you are most definitely a healer, but they are never going to consider you a healthcare provider.”

When they’d finished for the day and Steve sent her off with aftercare instructions, Steve stretched and cracked his back. Bucky shut his book but kept his page marked with one finger, “You have that ‘I want to draw more’ look, Stevie.”

“Do you mind? I’m really getting into the color schemes for the carousel piece.”

Bucky smiled softly, “Draw all you want, but I am going to feed you. Pizza?”

“Chinese?” Steve wheedled.

“Fine, but I am getting you your own order of spring rolls. Last time you swore blue you didn’t want one and then what did you do? Hmm?”

“I stole yours,” Steve said sheepishly.

“You stole mine,” Bucky agreed, “Jerk.”

After Bucky went off to get the food, Steve sat at his draft table and lost himself in lilacs and greens and oranges. When his brain registered that someone was knocking on the door, he rose, irritated, thinking that Bucky had forgotten his key. A man and woman stood outside, a prospective client if Steve was right about the woman. He opened the door.

“We’re closed,” he said kindly, “But I can give you a card and we can schedule an appointment.”

The man sailed passed him as though Steve hadn’t spoken. The woman gave him an apologetic smile and stepped in as well. The man surveyed Steve’s shop, taking everything in with a proprietary air. Fuckin' Iron Man, Steve recognized him from the news. In person he was dark-haired with just a few lines of grey, well-built, with a dark goatee, the famous glowing blue circle showing under his shirt and a master-of-the-universe attitude that irked Steve before the guy even opened his mouth.

“Tony Stark,” he said, turning back to Steve, “And this stunning creature is my better-half, Pepper Potts, and we are here because you have done all of the tats Pepper likes best.”

“Please excuse Tony, he was raised by wolves after his parents died,” the woman said. She was taller than Stark, slender and long-limbed. Her strawberry blonde hair was styled in a Rosemary’s Baby bob that Steve guessed was growing in after chemo. Her makeup was a single shade too dark for her, like she’d grown paler but hadn’t had the energy to notice, “You’re Steve Rogers?”

“Yeah.”  

She held out a hand for him to shake, “It’s true. I’ve done a lot of research and your name keeps coming up as one of the best. I’d like you to… give me some ink? I think that’s how it’s said?”

“I’d love to, I’ve got a pretty full schedule at the moment—” Steve began, but then Tony interrupted.

“Nope. Bump Pepper to the top of the list and I will more than make it worth your while.”   

Steve’s hackles rose, “I have women who’ve been waiting months, making arrangements, saving for travel expenses, childcare, time off from work. I’m not just going to put them off because you think you can buy anything you want.”

“Boys, please,” Pepper interceded, “What Mr. Stark means is that we’d be willing to cover the cost of travel and the tattooing for everyone currently on your waitlist.” She looked Steve in the eye, her gaze level and open. Her face took on an expression of bemused exasperation, “He wants to give me something. Tony doesn't have a great track record with gifts. But I’ve been waiting a long time to get to this point, and—” she paused, collected herself “We’re both ready for something to go right.”

Steve hesitated. That was _quite_ an offer. Tony was staring at the framed photos and pointedly ignoring the conversation, but his face was tight and strained. 

“Okay,” said Steve, “I’ll itemize the expenses for everyone on my current list and send it to you tomorrow. Once I get the check, Ms. Potts can come in the very next day.”

“Excellent!” Tony said, facing them once more. He bounced on his toes like an excited little kid, “Let’s do the consult now.”

“Uh—” Steve began but Stark took him by the elbow and towed him back into the ink room. He raised his eyebrows at Steve expectantly.

“If that’s alright with you,” Pepper added, following, “I’m actually not decided on a design yet, I thought you might have some suggestions.”

Back in his artistic domain, Steve slipped into professional mode, “Can I see the surgical site?” He glanced at Tony, “I can set up the screen if you don't want—”

“It’s fine, Tony’s seen it all before,” Pepper sat back and unbuttoned a cream-colored linen blouse that probably cost more than Steve’s phone and computer combined. Steve slipped on a pair of latex gloves, his mind already factoring her skin tone, the placement of the scars.

“How long ago was the reconstruction?” he asked. Pepper’d obviously had a fantastic surgeon, her new breasts were small enough for her lean build, with minimal scarring and perfectly placed. A lot of surgeons Steve knew would just go for bigger-is-better without considering how the patient wanted to look.

“Ten months,” she answered, “I thought about not getting it but… I was only ever a double A, but I waited eight years to grow the damn things in high school and I wanted them back.”

  “My opinion? After beating fucking cancer, everyone’s allowed to do what she wants,” Steve took some measurements, “What kind of ideas do you have? I can give you some books to take home for inspiration.”

“I was thinking arc reactor,” Tony offered, tapping the piece. He arched an eyebrow at Pepper, “Think about it, it's the right shape.”

“I am not getting little arc reactor nipples, Tony,” Pepper deadpanned.

“Okay, how about the whole breastplate— we could match!” Steve and Pepper exchanged glances. 

In spite of himself, Steve was starting to like the guy. He was brash, but not unkind, and he seemed truly devoted to Pepper. Steve had seen family members; husbands, boyfriends, kids, parents who all tended to ride a wave of euphoria once they were no longer teetering on the edge of losing a loved one. It was easy for them to soar right over the long slog that would be the healing process, but Tony seemed determined to let Pepper lead him in this. Steve had also seen guys, especially rich, entitled guys like Stark, cut and run before, during or after and he respected the man for not just sticking around, but sticking around with enthusiasm.

Steve and Pepper were deep in conversation about the symbolism in various tattoos when Steve heard the door open again. This time it was Bucky.

“Hey Buck,” he called, “Got one shirtless back here and I think we’re gonna be here a while longer.” Bucky waited in the front room for Steve to find out if the client would mind his presence. “Are you guys hungry?” Steve asked his guests. He was in the zone now and wanted to get to know Pepper as well as possible in the next few hours. They admitted that they could eat and Tony offered to go with Bucky to bring back more food.

“Mr. Stark’s gonna get some lo mein for him and his girlfriend,” Steve called, “Can you go with him to Pearl East?”

Bucky yelled back a yes and Tony slung on his leather jacket, patting his pockets for his wallet. He left Steve and Pepper in the back room. “Hey man,” Steve heard Tony say from out front. Then the door slammed. “What the—” Tony reemerged in the back.

“What happened?” asked Pepper

“Fuck if I know,” said Tony, he looked at Steve, “Your boyfriend took one look at me and bailed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want Tony's money to be the fix-all deus ex machina for Steve, but I worked at a non-profit for years (service dog training) and patrons really are a thing. Sometimes people with too much money really do have a pet project close to their heart that they're willing to pour money into.
> 
> Steve, being the little shit that he is, will have a hard time accepting anything beyond his fee for his own personal use, but still. Cha-ching.


	10. When Evening Falls So Hard

“I don’t want to talk about it. He reminded me of someone and that’s all I can say. And I’m sorry, for running out on you like that,” Bucky had the words out before Steve was even in the door. The man was literally wringing his hands. 

Steve sighed. “This running out of my shop without any explanation is getting to be a bad habit,” he shut the door and leaned wearily against it, “Luckily, neither Ms. Potts nor Mr. Stark took it personally.” He studied Bucky for a long moment, biting his lip, “I’m going to say something and I need you not to interrupt until I’m done. First off: we’re okay. I mean, I’m okay with you. I’m not stoked about your behavior, but I’m not going to kick you out.” Bucky stayed stock still on the couch, tension in every line of his body. “I know you’re coming from something really bad, and you’re still in real danger. I don’t need you to tell me about it if you’re not ready, but I think you should tell someone. If you can’t go to the cops about the men that are after you, at least could you talk to someone about what you’ve been through? The stuff they did- the nightmare stuff? My buddy Sam knows a lot of really good therapists.”

Bucky stared straight ahead of him without speaking for so long that Steve thought he might have gone catatonic or something. Alarmed he knelt down in front of Bucky, taking both hands in his own. 

“Please,” Bucky’s voice was more broken than Steve had ever heard it, “Just a little more time. I’m not—I wouldn’t know what to say. To anyone. My brain is so full of holes, but please—please forgive me.”

“Okay,” Steve kissed Bucky lightly- knuckles, forehead, lips, “But no more running off.”

That night, Bucky lay with Steve curled protectively against his back. Steve’s breathing was steady, and the rhythm of it calmed Bucky. He shifted slightly in Steve’s arms, nuzzling the top of Steve’s head. “None of this is going to touch you.” By now he knew better than to say it while Steve was awake but he had to say it nonetheless, “I swear to god, Stevie, none of this is going to touch you.”  
  
********************************************  
  
The next afternoon Bucky was up on the roof of Steve’s building, when the door opened and a dog trotted out followed by a blonde man, taller and broader than Steve, a large steaming cup in one hand. The man was dancing, pretty well Bucky thought, to some tune playing tinnily in a pair of earbuds. Bucky relaxed slightly—no one that oblivious to his surrounding posed much of a threat and the dog was showing his belly. The man came nearly toe-to-toe with Bucky before he noticed him. “Ah— stranger!” he squawked. Bucky held his hands up appeasingly and the man pulled off a fuzzy hat and fumbled at his ears. 

“Shit man, you scared me. How did you get up here?” he asked.

“From the basement.”

A light dawned on the man’s face. It was the look of a man who had discovered the long-awaited decoder ring at the bottom of his cheerios box. “You’re James,” he drew out the phrase as though he couldn’t bear to stop saying it, “You’re the guy who’s been staying with Steve.” Bucky nodded.

“Well,” he continued, “Hi, I’m Clint Barton. Steve’s one of my best friends and any guy who defends him from neo-Nazis is a friend of mine.”

“He’s more than paid me back.” Bucky gave the man’s hand a brief shake.

“Yeah, Steve’s like that. I harassed him for months to take an apartment here, and even then he’d only take the basement, which I’m eighty-percent sure used to be a closet. Or maybe a sex dungeon. Either way, its not something I’d rent to anyone sane. But anyway.” The dog had rolled to its feet and was sticking his nose uncomfortably close to Bucky’s crotch. He patted the dog gently with his right hand then shooed him away.

“That’s Lucky. Or Pizza Dog, he answers to both. We came up here to put these up,” the guy dumped out a bag of Christmas lights, “I came by to collect the rents and that always makes me feel like Scrooge, so I try to make the building look nice for the holidays. Wanna help?”

It was a loaded question, at least to Bucky. Too much time in the company of a relative stranger made him uncomfortable, but the man was a friend of Steve’s, helping him might make him think well of Bucky and then Steve would be reassured that Bucky was worth everything he’d put Steve through. At least little bit.

“Sure thing.”  
  
********************************************  
  
Steve found them an hour later, the roof draped all over with little rainbow colored lights. “Clint!” he looked between the two of them, “You met Bucky?”

“Yeah, he’s been helping me set up for the Christmas party,” he smiled, “You ready for tonight? Hey, it’s freezing, let’s go inside.”  
He slung an arm over Steve’s shoulders. The two of them stepped inside, followed by the dog. Bucky stayed another minute on the roof, surveying the surrounding buildings. He felt eyes on him, but then he always felt eyes on him. There was nothing out there now to justify the tight fear running through him. It had been there since he’d laid eyes on the man—Stark. Bucky had looked him up, Howard Stark’s son. It was a name he recognized but when he tried to place it in any kind of context all he got was fog. Fog, and a sharp, bitter pain. It was alright, he told himself as he turned to follow Steve inside, there was no one watching them.

“You have to come tonight! Natasha will murder you if you bail,” Clint was pleading with Steve when Bucky joined them in Steve’s apartment. Steve gave him an indulgent smile then looked at Bucky, “What do you think? You up for a night out?”

Bucky was not up for a night out. He was up for taking Steve and finding the most secure room in the city, one with no windows, where he knew all the points of entry. He was up for stockpiling weapons and standing guard for the rest of their natural lives. “Okay,” he said.

*****************************************  


The bar was called Apex. It had personality but no pretensions, and the owners liked to have interesting bands and artists in to liven things up. Steve’s friends were already waiting for them when they arrived. Bucky wore some of Clint’s clothes since he didn’t own anything besides jeans, t-shirts and sweats- all of them second hand at best. Changing alone in Steve’s room he’d gone over all the seams for wires or needles but found nothing, and the way Steve’s eyes seemed to lighten and darken simultaneously when he saw Bucky all nattily turned out made it worthwhile. Steve introduced him to Sam, Kate, Peggy and Clint again.

Once they were all seated Steve immediately lost nose-goes—Bucky wasn’t sure exactly why everyone was touching their noses, but his observation skills and reflexes were razor sharp and he figured _when in Rome_. Steve left grumbling to fight his way to the bar and Bucky found himself the receiving end of four pairs of scrutinizing eyes. For a moment the images in his head shuffled like a deck of cards until he found the right one—a young man with a sly, winning smile. He turned that smile on Steve’s friends now.

“How do you guys know Steve?”

Sam had met Steve on his first Thanksgiving back from overseas, two years earlier. They’d both been among a handful of runners who turned out for the neighborhood Turkey Trot in spite of the rain, and had gotten to talking before the race. It was Steve’s first, he was trying to improve his cardiovascular system. Sam was running for the endorphins. “Cheaper than klonopin,” he’d explained. When he heard that Sam planned to spend the rest of the day alone eating leftovers, he invited him to dinner. They lost each other during the race and Steve spent the whole time worried that he’d come on too strong. He’d finished dead last and found Sam waiting at the finish line. 

The dark-haired girl was Kate. She was Clint’s half-sister or step-sister or something that amounted to her following Clint’s friends around like an adoring puppy and generally giving Clint a hard time. “Steve’s the only one who put up with all his drama after he didn’t make the Olympic Archery team,” she told Bucky matter-of-factly.

“There was no drama,” Clint quipped, “I am the most undramatic person ever, there are episodes of Bob Ross that have more drama than I do.”

“It’s probably the only time in history where a tattoo artist talked a client _out_ of a full-body tattoo. Of- what was it? Edvard Munch’s Scream all the way down your back?”

Clint picked a peanut out of the bowl and flicked it at her. She deflected it gracefully with her Kate Spade bag and shook her head, “And all he got in return was you for a slumlord.”

“Landlord! Slumlords own more tracksuits," Clint huffed.

The knockout with the auburn hair was Peggy, Steve’s best friend from art school. She'd studied costume design and Steve had loyally gone to see any show she worked on after graduation. “He’s the one who introduced me to Natasha,” she said stirring her drink, “I do all her costumes now. And you’re the guy who saved him from the spray paint Nazis.”

“Hey! I had those guys on the ropes,” Steve said, returning with a pitcher of beer. He took the empty seat next to Bucky, beaming at him, “Getting along alright?”

“You’re friends are telling me all your darkest secrets,” he answered.

“Okay everybody, shutting up time,” Sam ordered. Lights came on over the bar’s stage and the bartender stepped up to announce, “The lovely ladies of the New York School of Burlesque, featuring the one and only, make some noise for her out there—the Black Widow!”

She appeared as a shimmer in the dark, dressed in a long cloak and hood like a medieval Russian princess. Her face was simply made-up, no obvious make up, making her appear fresh and innocent. Then she dropped the hood and shot her audience a look that made all that disappear. The crowd went wild for her. Natasha toyed with them a while, undulating under the cloak— just a hand or foot peeking out from its heavy folds. When the crowd was well and truly wound up, she let it pool to the floor in a velvety heap. Underneath it she was all spangles and silk. As the music played she sashayed up and down, discarding a glove here, a strap there. Moving in time with the music, she raised one shapely leg straight up and slid her stocking off as she lowered it. With a wink, she tossed it to Sam.

“That’s my girlfriend,” he whispered loudly to Bucky. At that moment, the redhead commanded everyone within sight of her. She was hypnotic, and her performance gave Bucky a moment to quickly scan the room, reassuring himself that all eyes were where they were supposed to be. When her number ended with an elegant split and arch of her back the crowd erupted again. Natasha disappeared in the ensuing applause and appeared at their table moments later, dressed in her corset, panties and stockings. 

“I come bearing shots,” she announced theatrically, handing a vodka shot to each of them. She seated herself and scrutinized Bucky. “So, this is Steve’s new friend? Has he had the shovel talk yet?”

Steve rolled his eyes, “I can’t listen to this, who wants a refill?” He stood, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder encouragingly, “And Nat, please be nice?” 

“I’m always nice,” she called after him, then turned her attention to Bucky, “Wait- did he say nice or vice? I always get those two confused." Her expression grew serious, "To put it simply: Steve’s a human pinball- he collides with people and they just light up,” she leaned closer to him, “This is the first time we’ve seen _him_ lit up in a long time. Don’t fuck it up, okay?”

Her insinuation gave him pause, but Bucky agreed. No one in their right mind would not have agreed with her. He followed Steve with his eyes as the blonde chatted with the bartender. The evening had been going well but it was starting to wear on him. The noise, the crowd, the knowing air of Steve’s friends when they looked at him and Steve together. The whole atmosphere was starting to make his skin feel too tight. Still he kept it together, he couldn’t let Steve down again. When the show ended the stage was opened up for dancing. Only Bucky and Clint declined and the rest of the group was soon swallowed up in the crowd. He tried to keep Steve in his sight but kept losing him as taller people stepped in front. There were so many people, he couldn’t keep track of them all. Was the man in the suspenders watching him for too long? Was the woman in the silver coat working her way closer?

“You’re really gone on him, aren’t you?” asked Clint, interrupting his surveillance. His tone was mild but the question froze Bucky. Natasha had implied, but this- there was no misinterpreting Clint's meaning. _They knew— they could tell about him and Steve._ The thought frightened him in an entirely different way from his usual fear. Bucky mumbled something and fled to the bar. 

He hid there, counting the exits, watching for people who didn’t fit, or who were looking at Steve with ill-intent. When Steve found him, the blonde was obviously several drinks in, all loose-limbed and loose-tongued. "Hey babe," he slurred. He slid his arms around Bucky and tried to kiss his neck. Bucky pushed him abruptly, one open palm spanned over Steve’s chest, forcing him back out of his space. “Don’t,” he hissed. For a second Steve just stared at him open-mouthed. Then his face crumpled and he turned away furiously. 

“Steve, wait—” Bucky called, but Steve was forcing his way through the crowd towards the exit. Bucky followed him outside. Steve ignored his pleas for four blocks before rounding on him, “You can’t treat me like that, Bucky! What is _wrong_ with you?” 

“I didn’t want— everyone would have seen us. They would have known that we’re…” he trailed off.

“So fucking what? Maybe where you grew up it wasn’t okay for gay couples to show PDA or even be gay couples—”

“Here. I grew up here, in Brooklyn.”

“Then you should fucking know better! Who spends their childhood within spitting distance of Williamsburg and still thinks that way?”

“I don’t know!” Bucky shouted. He stopped and put a hand over his mouth. “I don’t know who I am. Not for sure. If I tell you who I think I am you’ll think I’m nuts. Hell, I think I’m nuts.” Everything was coming apart. He’d known it would happen but he hadn’t realized how much it would _hurt_ , and he wanted to get out before Steve hated him or feared him or both. “I should go,” he said helplessly.

“Stop,” a small hand gripped Bucky’s elbow. Steve was blinking tiredly at him. “It’s really late, and I’m drunk. We’re going to go home and get some sleep. And then you are going to tell me who exactly you think you are,” he sighed heavily, “And we’ll go from there.”

That night, lying side by side on Steve's mattress, Steve reached over in the dark and took Bucky's hand. "You make me better Buck," he murmured, "I want to make you better too. Please let me try." Bucky said nothing, but he scooted closer and fell asleep breathing in the scent of Steve's soft, gold hair.


	11. A Hazy Shade of Winter

“Well you do kinda look like him,” Steve studied the photo of James “Captain America” Barnes on wikipedia then looked back to Bucky. If he could have guessed at all, that had not been the answer he’d been expecting. Steve focused back on the picture, avoiding eye contact with Bucky. He’d meant what he’d said the night before— he cared about Bucky, with Bucky he was finally doing more than just existing. If Bucky was sick, if he needed more help than Steve could give him, Steve would do everything in his power to see that he got it. Maybe Sam could help. But it would break his heart if he had to send Bucky away. 

And then, what if he wasn’t delusional? Steve himself had considered some kind of nefarious secret organization one of the most likely culprits of the attempted kidnapping that had really brought them together. “Buck,” he said as gently as he could, “Why exactly do you think you’re this American legend who disappeared in 1944?”

Steve wasn’t the only one avoiding eye contact. Jean Harlow had climbed into Bucky’s lap when he began his story and since then he hadn’t raised his eyes from her. 

“I know things, remember things. Growing up here, the war, getting the serum. Nothing’s totally clear but I know it the way I know left and right, like something that’s always been there. And there’s this—” he let go of the cat and pulled his shirt over his head. Gorgeous body, awful mess of scars, metal arm. Steve’s priorities were truly fucked up but that’s the order in which he noticed it. “Holy shit,” he said

“Hydra gave me this after they found me. I think in the beginning they wanted me to remember, to know who I was so they could take it all away slowly. There’s a picture I keep seeing in my head of an arm—my arm, on a surgical table. I had a tattoo here," he pointed to his forearm, "A pin-up dressed up like the Statue of Liberty. I was on one side of the room but I could see her on the arm, the colors were all wrong. All black and grey.” Bucky dropped his head to the table, covered his face. His shoulders jerked but when Steve raised him up to look at him, Bucky’s eyes were dry. “Or I’m just nuts,” he gasped, “I’m just some bum who’s filling in his life with stories.”

“Shh,” Steve hushed him. He sat himself on the table in front of Bucky, putting them at a height where he could cradle Bucky’s face against his skinny chest. “I don’t think that’s the kind of story you make up to feel better about yourself.” He ran a hand over Bucky’s scarred shoulder, down his metal arm, “Plus there’s this. That’s not something you get at the VA Medical Center.” He took the shining hand in both of his own, feeling his way up each individual plate, all the way to the massive scar tissue at Bucky’s shoulder.

“You think it might be true?” Bucky's tone was that of a lost child.

“It sounds like science fiction," Steve admitted, "Historians have been debating whether there ever was a serum or if Captain America was just a publicity stunt. But there was a James Barnes, and he did serve in the European theater and he did disappear in Austria in 1944.” Bucky gazed at Steve with so much trust he could hardly breathe. He went on, “So let’s find some of the people who knew James Barnes, and see what they have to say.”

*******************************************  


Steve wasn’t a bad liar, but he was terrible at lying to his friends. He avoided meeting Sam in person, tried to ask for his help solely by texting because he was sure Sam would hear something in his voice that would give him away. It didn’t work and after the third missed call he had to answer.

“Why do you need to find these guys?” Sam asked.

“It’s research, for a tattoo,” he thought that sounded plausible-ish.

“I can put you in touch with World War II vets here in Brooklyn if you want, probably a lot easier than—”

“No it... it has to be one of the Howling Commandos. Please Sam, it’s important,” Steve pleaded. Sam had been helping him with friend-things for as long as they’d known each other; moving everything out of his mom’s apartment, doing the web design for his tattoo parlor, inviting him over for huge meals during times when he suspected Steve was particularly hard up. After Steve had introduced him to Natasha and Sam had fallen for her like a drunken slinkie, he’d made Steve promise that he’d come to Sam for any favor up to and including moving a body. Forty-eight hours later Steve got a text:

Jim Morita 403 High Street Buffalo NY

716-555-4939

the guy’s in his 90s, try not to bug him

Lying to Mr. Morita was slightly easier than lying to Sam. This time Steve pretended to be researching a book. The man wasn’t effusively friendly over the phone, but he agreed to let Steve visit.

“I have one more favor,” he asked Sam after hanging up with Morita, “I need you to convince Clint to lend me his car for a couple days.”

Sam sighed, “I said I’d help you move a body, but man _that_ is on a whole other level of favor. I’m gonna have to enlist Nat for that one.”

“Please, I’ll really owe you one.”

“No you won’t,” Steve could picture Sam’s expression of frustrated bemusement, “But if anything happens to the Challenger I’ll be helping Clint hide _your_ body.”  
**********************************************  


They left for Buffalo the next morning. Bucky had been different since he’d told Steve his story— quieter, more withdrawn. They spent the first half of the drive listening to Steve’s old classic rock mixes. Most of the time Bucky sat with his head leaning against the window, occasionally commenting if he liked a certain artist or recognized a song from somewhere.

“That singer, I read about him,” he said somewhere north of Poughkeepsie. He hadn’t spoken in an hour except to say that no, he wasn’t hungry and didn’t need to use the bathroom.

“John Lennon? Not surprising, probably one of the most influential musicians of the century,”

“He was killed. But I don’t think it was me.” 

Steve blinked in shock for a few seconds. “…No, they caught the guy that did it right away. He never even left the scene.” He couldn’t wrap his head around Bucky’s mindset, how it would feel to wonder which tragedies he’d been a part of.

“Good,” Bucky said, “I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

Sitting too long in the car was hell on Steve’s back so they stopped at lunchtime and got a motel room. They ate burgers, and Bucky watched TCM while Steve napped for a few hours. It was raining hard out when he woke up. Bucky had turned the television off at some point and lay staring off into nowhere. The room was lit from outside with grey light. Steve rolled to face Bucky, placed a slim hand on his friend’s face. Bucky stroked the back of it gently with his finger tips and began to speak.

“I woke up during a storm. Hurricane Sandy, I found that out later. The handlers didn’t move me out in time. Storm took out the generator, I’m not supposed to wake up that fast. I was so sick. My stomach was empty but I kept puking.” His chest rose with each rough, staccato breath. 

“Not sure how long I stayed in the chamber, I thought someone would come and get me. Then I realized I was underwater, the building had flooded. I was supposed to wait, someone would have come for me eventually. But it was so hot in there after a while, and the smell—I think I went crazy. I smashed the door off and just ran. The streets were empty, no power, and everything about them made me afraid. I thought maybe the world had ended.”

Steve hurt so much for him he could hardly speak, “Where’d you go?”

“New Jersey.” 

Steve gave startled burst of laughter. It wasn’t funny, it was probably the most unfunny thing he’d ever heard but he couldn’t help it. Bucky’s face was buried in Steve’s chest and he was trembling all over. Steve realized that he was laughing too. They clung together, spasming with giggles. Steve buried his face in Bucky’s hair and laughed till he wheezed. 

“I didn’t stay!” Bucky protested, “I didn’t stay in Jersey!” Their laughter subsided. “I just kept moving, hiding, waiting for something to click in my head. Waiting for them to find me. I was always confused when I woke up, until I was briefed. I thought about going back to them, just because I didn't know where else to go, but thinking about it, about the chair, the cryo chamber where I woke up, it scared the hell out of me. For a long time I was afraid to come back to New York.” 

Steve stroked his face, “But you had to.” 

Bucky nodded, “I started getting flashes, pictures of streets and buildings and people. I thought going back to Brooklyn would make everything fit, but my head’s still full of holes.”

“When did you start to remember being Captain America?”

“…There was a memorial. 60th anniversary of D-Day. I was in this tiny little burg in Ohio, but they were still throwing a parade. Flags, old posters everywhere. There was one of the Commandos.” he laughed again, “They weren’t even in Normandy, they were in Anzio.” He saw Steve’s quizzical expression. “I read a lot about them after I saw the poster.”

Steve sat up and slung a leg over Bucky’s waist, straddling him. He gripped Bucky’s shoulders firmly, “We are going to solve this, Buck. I promise.” 

He slid his mouth over Bucky’s, ran his tongue across the other man’s. Reaching down, he pulled the shirt off, over Bucky’s head and got his hands on that firm chest and flat belly for the first time. They each fumbled at their pants and underwear, working together until they were both completely bare— almost. Steve took hold of the metal wrist and peeled the glove off. He decided he was going to fucking love that metal hand, that he’d let Bucky use it on him any way he wanted, replace all the bad memories associated with it with new, good ones. The cool fingers left goosebumps down his chest as he guided Bucky’s hand between his legs. “Mmmph—” he broke the kiss briefly, “’S not made of nickel, right?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I‘ve got a- ah- nickel allergy, gives me a rash.” 

“Nope, vibranium-adamantium alloy. One of a kind.”

“Well then carry on,” Steve grinned. He twisted around until he could reach his overnight bag, fishing the lube out of a zippered pocket. With his hand coated in the clear liquid, Bucky wrapped his metal fingers around Steve and stroked. He took Steve’s balls in his palm. The metal was rapidly warming but there was still enough of a temperature difference that it made Steve hiss. It was a rush, knowing how vulnerable he was at that moment, the most sensitive part of his fragile body cradled in something so inexorably powerful.

“God— Buck—,” Steve rose up on his knees, trying to force Bucky’s hand back further, where he really wanted it.

Bucky snatched his hand away. “No, not that. I can’t do that to you yet.”

Steve smoothed his brow, “There’s no rush, we can do whatever you want.”

Holding Steve close against him, Bucky slid down until he was lying with Steve sprawled on top of him. He placed his feet flat on the bed, trapping Steve between his bent knees.

“I can do that for you sometime,” he said almost shyly, “But I think I should practice first.” He held out his hand and waggled the fingers for more lube. Steve obliged him and sat back on his heels to watch in awe as Bucky worked those metal fingers inside himself. The first one was fine, sinking into Bucky’s hole up to the knuckle, Bucky’s face serene and happy. Steve jerked himself lazily as he watched. The second wasn’t as easy, Bucky could only take them halfway in before Steve saw him bite his lip in tension.

“Slowly,” he whispered, stilling Bucky’s movements. He leaned over and laved at the scar tissue surrounding the joining of flesh and metal with his tongue. He nuzzled it, feeling each ridge and groove against his cheek, sucked love bites from bottom of Bucky’s jaw down to his collar bone, then went back to nipping lightly at the roughened skin. Buck was giving desperate little whines, strangely vulnerable sounds from someone as strong as him. Steve glanced down and saw that he had three fingers worked into himself and his cock was hard and flush against Steve’s thigh. 

“Now, please—” he begged Steve. 

Steve’s hands shook but he rolled the condom on and then he was sliding back off the bed. He pulled Bucky down by the hips, standing at the foot of the bed to line them up perfectly and slid inside. It was good like this- he had the angle and leverage to piston his hips in and out, fucking Bucky as hard as he needed. It didn’t take Steve long; the heat of Bucky around him and the sight of his friend jerking himself with his metal hand sent Steve over the edge. He kept rocking into Bucky, riding the aftershocks of his orgasm, until his movements grew smaller and smaller and he finally pulled out.

Bucky whined at the withdrawl and Steve sank to his knees, manhandling Bucky into the right position for Steve to suck him down. He swallowed Bucky until his cock touched the back of Steve’s throat and he gripped the rest with his long fingers. He bobbed his head, ran his tongue along Bucky’s slit until his mouth was flooded with the bitter, salty taste of Bucky’s cum. 

There was nothing Steve had ever seen that was more beautiful than this man, naked, all muscle and sinew, draped in scars that Steve wanted to know by heart, relaxed and spent because of what Steve had done and how Steve had made him feel. They crawled back up to the head of the bed together, Steve knotting and tossing the used condom before Bucky wrapped them up in the thin motel blanket. Steve knew some guys didn’t really like kissing someone who’d just sucked them off and he wasn’t going to force the issue or bother getting up right that second, but Bucky kissed him tenderly before tucking Steve against him so that Steve’s head rested over his heart, just at the edge of the scarring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Thanks for reading!


	12. And Walked Off To Look For America

The next morning Steve woke from the kind of thorough, sated sleep that only came after he’d been spectacularly laid. Of course the moment he sat up his back gave a painful spasm, pointing out just how shoddy the quality of the motel mattress was. The shower was running, and Bucky was toweling off as he stepped out of the bathroom and saw Steve stretching gingerly. 

“Water’s still hot,” he offered. 

It was true, and Steve was unutterably thankful for it as he stepped under the spray and let the water roll over him from his neck to his sacram. The shower curtain rustled and Bucky, still naked, stepped in behind him and began to run the knuckles of his metal hand down Steve’s lumbar curve. 

They paid and Bucky warmed the car up while Steve made a quick run to Dunkins. The rain had frozen overnight, leaving the roads slick and the day miserably cold, and Steve was antsy and impatient as he waited for the woman in the purple peacoat to finish her complicated order. He let Bucky drive the few hours remaining to Jim Morita’s single-level ranch. It was just before noon when they arrived. Bucky cut the engine and sat, staring at the nondescript house like it was an alien spacecraft.

“Should I go in first?” Steve asked, “Maybe give him some warning?”

“Yes. No,” Bucky was shaking hard, “If I don't go in with you now, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it. But I shouldn’t— Morita, I don't want to scare him.”

They could have sat there all day, forever maybe, by the look on Bucky’s face. “C’mon,” Steve said, making an executive decision.

The door was opened by an adolescent girl dressed in what were probably the warmest indoor clothes she owned. “Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing them curiously.

“I’m Steve Rogers, I’m here to speak to James Morita.” From inside the house someone shouted “Zoe shut the door, it’s freakin’ freezing!” and the girl ushered them inside.

“Grandad’s watching the game, but it’s sucking pretty hard so far so I guess it’s okay to interrupt,” she said retreating down a hall towards the sound of a television.

“Thanks,” said Steve, “Could my friend use your bathroom first?” She pointed to a door halfway along the hallway and Steve gave Bucky’s hand a quick squeeze before leaving him to follow Zoe into the living room.

Jim Morita was ninety-four years old, but he had the spare sturdiness of a ninety-year-old marathon runner and shrewd eyes. Steve was relieved that the man still had the awareness to possibly be helpful— hell the guy might even be in better shape than Steve was. He sat enthroned in a leather Lazy Boy while Zoe joined two other girls of indeterminate teenage or adolescent age sprawled out on the sofa.

“So,” Morita said, muting the commercials, “You’re Steve Rogers you said? You're writing a book—truth or fiction?”

“Ah, truth,” Steve stammered, “Actually—” he was interrupted by Morita berating the girls for not making room for their guest to sit and the three stalked off truculently to make coffee and hot cocoa.

“Truth, heh. What more is there to write about the war that’s true? Take my advice, ask me your questions but then use it as wallpaper, make up something different. Something with wizards or- wait has that already been done?” 

In the corner of his eye, Steve could make out Bucky shifting uneasily in the shadowy hall. “I want to ask you about James Buchanan Barnes.”

Morita’s face jerked briefly, “Captain America. He was a decent man. Not good like a saint, but decent. Bravest guy I ever met, stubborn, cocky as shit although that was mostly for show.”

“This is going to sound crazy, but would you know him? If you saw him again?”

The man gave Steve a hard stare, “Son, I know those men from that time better than I know my own grandkids.”

“It’s true,” a girl’s voice hollered, “He never calls us the right name, sometimes he calls us by the dog’s name and she’s been dead since we were babies.”

“Don’t be so rude!” Jim shouted back, “Mr. Rogers is going to think your parents are raising a pack of Nosey Nancys.” From the kitchen someone muttered something about nobody using that phrase anymore and Morita turned back to Steve.

“Well?” he asked expectantly, but Steve was at a loss for words. He craned his neck to peer down the hall, and shot Bucky a pleading this-is-as-far-as-my-plan-goes look. Perplexed, Morita also leaned to get a look at the stranger lingering just outside the room. Eyes fixed on the carpet, Bucky shuffled in. Jim stared at him. Bucky stared around the room, photos, knickknacks, children’s artwork carefully framed—anywhere but at the man in the recliner. Steve stared back and forth between the two of them like a man at a tennis match.

“Sweet ever-lovin’ shitballs,” Morita swore softly, “Are you…. I thought Becca never had any kids.”

Bucky looked at him for the first time, “Jim. It’s me, it’s Bucky.” Morita held up a hand to cut him off. Tension rolled in Steve’s stomach.

“Don’t,” the old man commanded, “Just don’t.”

Bucky looked helplessly at Steve but Steve had no answers for him. He stayed standing awkwardly while Morita took deep, steadying breaths.

“You’re Bucky Barnes. Not his grandkid, not some clone cooked up in a lab— James Barnes, Captain America.” Bucky nodded. “Ok then, let’s see your feet.” 

Steve and Bucky glanced at each other in confusion. “Come on now, kick off your shoes and lemme see your feet,” Morita insisted. Dazed, Bucky sat beside Steve on the couch and began unlacing his sneakers. He set his socks inside them and held up his feet for inspection. Steve studied them too, they looked like ordinary feet to him. Normal size for Bucky’s height, normal toes, a few callouses and— Morita was staring, transfixed, at something on the bottom of Bucky’s right foot.

The three granddaughters chose that moment to reappear with coffee. “Uh, gramps, WTF is going on?” asked on of the two who wasn’t Zoe.

“Juliette, Zoe- you girls know where my old foot locker is?” They nodded. “Go on and bring it down here, Rachel find the photo album from your grandma’s wedding.” They went, staring back at the crazy trio in the living room.

When they’d gone Jim looked at Bucky. His gaze was intent but not harsh and he asked, “Can you tell me how you got that scar on your foot?”

Bucky ran his human fingers over the scar. It started on the outside sole of his right foot, a deep indentation that hadn’t completely filled in over time, and emerged on the top of his foot like a small crater. He stared at it like he’d never seen it before. Steve had seen it, but compared with the rest of Bucky’s scars it had faded into invisibility for him.

“It was a garden stake,” Bucky said slowly, “I was climbing out a second-story window, I was carrying my shoes, and I landed on it.”

“Uh-huh, carrying your pants too I recall,” Morita agreed, “Whose window were you climbing out of?”

Bucky shot him an affronted look, “Jim, I ain’t gonna bandy a lady’s name—.” He stopped, shocked. They all looked shocked. Then Jim began to laugh. He laughed until tears rolled down his face and the girls poked their heads back in to see if their grandfather was alright. “That’s just what you told Dum Dum everytime he asked,” he chortled. Morita sighed and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“So, Captain Barnes, forgive my language sir but where the fuck have you been?”  
  
***********************************************************  
  


Three hours later all three of them sat around Jim’s polished but seldom used dining room table. The contents of the footlocker lay spread out from end to end— comics, newsreels on 35mm, posters and letters and medals. 

“The comics never mentioned the serum, nobody was supposed to know about it without high level clearance,” Jim said, “We knew of course, there’s only so many times you can watch a guy bend a tank cannon ninety degrees without suspecting he's on something more than iron supplements. And you always did run your mouth, Cap.”

Steve had spent most of his time watching Bucky’s face; every so often his mouth almost quirked in a smile, but it never quite stuck. “Did I tell you why they picked me?” he asked.

“You were an army brat, orphaned but still living on base at Camp Lehigh. And you were a clever, ornery little punk. You ran contraband into base for the men, and the officers, but you picked fights with ‘em too. The higher-ups took note, started training you when you were just fifteen.”   

Steve did some quick math in his head, “So if they gave you the serum in 1940, you would have been 22, 23 maybe?”

“Yup, and don’t think that didn’t cause some hurt feelers in the beginning. Guys who’d been enlisted for years thinkin’ they should’ve been the one given the trial. But from what I heard, mostly from Howard Stark, was that the doc refused all the candidates the army offered ‘cept you, Cap.”

“Do you remember any of that, Buck?” Steve asked. Bucky shook his head no.

“I remember the war some, training. Feels like a movie I know I saw but I can’t think of the title.”

“Stark said that after Erskine’s death there was a bit of a schism— bigwigs who wanted to keep you in the lab to recreate the serum, bigwigs who wanted you out on the front bein’ America’s hero. Guess you know which side won,” Morita continued, “Not that they got to relish the victory since the first thing you did was go AWOL after us boys from the 107th.”

  “Yes,” Bucky whispered, almost to himself, “Schmidt had you, and Zola. But we got out that time.”

Jim’s face was a mixture of anger and pity, “They saw what you could do, after that… I think you were a bit of an idée fixe for the both of them. In the end I wasn’t sure if it was us chasing them or them chasing us. Either way, we caught up to each other in Austria. That’s when…” he trailed off. No one spoke for a long time, then Jim slammed a fist down on the table. “Those sons of bitches! We told them and told them, you’d survived gunshots, knifings, shocks, one time a whole damn building collapsed on you- but they said there was no way you could’ve survived the fall. And they didn’t have resources to spare lookin’ for a body.”

He was shaking with long repressed anger, and Steve was grinding his teeth. Only Bucky seemed anywhere near calm. “S’okay, I think…I don't think I was down there very long. I think _they_ wanted you all to see me die. So no one would be lookin’ for me,” he gave a humorless laugh, “Stupid place to fight, really- on a train, speeding over a ravine. Shoulda waited until it was across the bridge. Guess I never was that great at tactics.”

Jim reached over and took Bucky’s smooth, young-looking hand in his papery one, “You were a great commander, and the best friend a guy could ask for.” Bucky ducked his head and gripped Jim’s hand tighter. “Whatever I can do for you now, Cap, you only have to ask.”  
  
****************************************************************  
  


Jim offered to put them up for the night but Steve had to be in the shop the Monday morning to meet with Pepper and Stark, and Bucky, although relieved and warmed by their reception, seemed eager for some solitude. They’d just make it if they spent the night half-way again and left obscenely early the next morning. Jim sent them off with sandwiches and coffee, and the one hard copy he had of the photo of all the Howling Commandos together outside Paris.

They drove in silence, but it was an easy silence now, without the tension of questioning the truth of Bucky’s story. Bucky could have driven all night, but Steve could see the exhaustion in his face that had nothing to do with physical tiredness and they pulled over at an EconoLodge three hours north of the city. The sandwiches were long gone, and they were both hungry and cranky at finding that nothing in the neighborhood stayed open after nine. They checked in and Steve announced that he was going in search of a vending machine, arguing that a dinner of doritos and snickers was better than nothing.

Since he had so brilliantly stepped into an ankle-deep puddle of slush on the way in, he left his sneakers and padded out to the lobby in his socks. Once he found the vending nook he spent nine dollars on junk food and soda. He’d dropped everything once already and was re-gathering it all into his arms when he felt someone behind him. Kneeling to rearrange his purchases he snuck a quick look behind him and saw the same purple-coated woman from the Dunkin’ Donuts that morning. She was ignoring him, tapping at a phone but Steve’s minuscule instinct for self-preservation sat up and started baying at him. He rose to his feet and turned, smiling like a normal, friendly, oblivious guy would and saw the gun.

“Drop everything,” she said without feeling, “Back against the wall.”

Steve let everything slide from his grasp, backing away from her. The last thing in his hands was a can of Pepsi. Without thinking he threw it straight at the woman’s head, there was a deafening noise and the can exploded in fizz as the bullet passed through it. Steve ducked, barreled past her and sprinted back towards the room. The flimsy, faux-wood door stood open. There was no one inside.


	13. She Said the Man In the Gabardine Suit Was a Spy

The morning that Steve and Bucky left for Buffalo, Peggy was putting the finishing touches on another of Natasha’s costumes: this one a powder-blue ballerina outfit with a tulle skirt hanging like a bell around her and delicate ribbons at her waist, elbow and neckline. It made her look like a ballerina in a little girls’ music box until pieces of it started coming off one by one, showing off her perfect muscular body. Natasha finished helping a group of novice performers rehearse and came to admire Peggy’s work. 

“Does this one have garters?” she asked.

“Does the pope wear a funny hat?” answered Peggy. Natasha laughed and began slipping into the new costume.

“I need you to remind me to feed Steve’s cat tomorrow,” said Peggy, lacing the corset. 

Natasha’s brow made a small, worried crease. “What did he say when he asked you?”

“Just that he and his boyfriend had to go away for a few days. Why?” Peggy studied her, “You think there’s something off with that Bucky guy?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Peggy continued, “It’s kinda fast, but Steve looks better than he has since before his mom got sick.”

“He does,” Natasha concurred, “That makes it worse.”  
******************************************************

Those who didn’t know Natasha Romanov would have interpreted her mood for the rest of the day as pissed off, or just scary. Sam knew better, knew that the tightness in her jaw and the shark-blank look in her eye was closer to fear than anger. He returned from collecting their orders for their weekly Shake Shack lunch to find her tapping away at his laptop.

“Just promise me you’re not violating any HIPPA laws while you’re in there, please babe?” he sighed, setting down two trays.

Natasha gave a small smile but didn’t look up, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She closed the computer and took a handful of fries, “I need to tell you something and I need to know if I should be worried or if this is just burn notice residue making me paranoid.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Steve’s boyfriend said his name was James Lehigh, Steve called him Bucky. There are twenty-two James Lehighs in the US and none of them are him.”

Sam paused with a mouthful of burger, “Maybe he’s not American.”

Natasha shook her head, “He has a Brooklyn accent, it wasn’t huge but it came out more when he was relaxed. Whatever speech work he’s done since childhood, _that’s_ his default,” she leaned over and stole a sip of Sam’s milkshake, “So am I overreacting?”

“That depends on what your next step is,” he replied, “If you want to corner him when they get back and grill the guy I’m behind you all the way. If you want to have your old boss call in a drone strike… Steve might be a little pissed if you don’t talk to him first.”

She nodded thoughtfully, “Peggy said they’re coming back tomorrow, I think I can wait until then. But I might call Maria— no drone strike, just two old friends overdue to catch up.”  
****************************************************

There was something wrong with the vibe at Apex that night, Sam thought. He, Peggy and Clint sat together at their usual table with their usual drinks while Nat did her usual extraordinary job and something felt insidiously off. 

“Is it just me, or did the creep factor in here go up exponentially this weekend?” asked Peggy.

Sam pondered that, he didn’t have the creep-radar that the women in his life had, and he knew that burlesque shows sometimes attracted unsavory types who didn’t know what it was all about. Those kind usually converted or left when faced with the tidal wave of happy adoration from the rest of the audience, and Apex hadn’t had any real problems with patrons being inappropriate in all the time Natasha had worked there. 

So what was it? The crowd had its usual fairly even split of genders, people were drinking the amount typical of a normal weekend, everyone was fixated on his stunning girlfriend doing her stunning dance and— no. That was it, not everyone was watching Natasha. And, come to think of it, those few men and women scattered through the crowd who weren’t watching Natasha hadn’t watched any of the other performers either. Sam surveyed one, a well built, average-looking guy in his mid-twenties with skinny jeans and a button down shirt. The guy was scanning the crowd, his gaze never settling too long on any one person. It was just plain weird, like watching a hipster Secret Service agent. Sam left the rest of his drink untouched, deciding to drag them out of there as soon as Nat’s number was over. There was no real reason for such unease, that feeling like a school of fish living in his stomach. Maybe the owners were under scrutiny for not carding. Maybe this was a stakeout. But those little fish had saved his life more than once during his tours of duty, and he wasn’t going to start ignoring them now.  
**************************************

In another, much posher neighborhood Pepper Potts treated herself to an early night, curling up in her thousand-thread count sheets to play words with friends against Jarvis while Tony wore himself out in his workshop. She’d just begun to drift off to sleep when a blaring alarm went off throughout the floor, shocking her instantly into full wakefulness. 

“Jarvis, what’s going on?” she cried, sprinting for Tony’s lab.

“Attempted security breach,” came Jarvis’ cool, unhurried voice, “On the top story.” 

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows she saw the Mark VIII go shooting up towards the roof. She and Tony nearly collided at the stairwell door, Tony tapping furiously at his wrist transmitter and shouting to Jarvis. They raced together up the last four flights of stairs between their living quarters and the roof of Stark Tower. It was freezing cold on the roof, and the wind was intensely strong. Four of the Iron Man suits stood sentinel, one at each corner, but there was no sign of any intruders.

“Jarvis, did we get any footage?” Tony asked.

“Partial image of the attempted breach from model E-141. I’m uploading it to the mainframe now and will try to sharpen it into some usable footage,” the AI said, “Initial analysis suggests a team of eight armed men.”

“Eight? Shit, that’s not a lone crazy. That’s a whole strike team.” Tony and Pepper looked at each other. He took her hand and they climbed slowly back down to their home.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Pepper offered when they reached their floor, “Then let’s see who’s trying to attack you this time.”  
****************************************************  


The next morning Peggy arrived early to check on Jean Harlow. She rolled her eyes as she passed Steve’s mailbox in the lobby, overflowing with bills that he was probably trying to ignore for another few weeks. She pushed open the door to the stairs leading down to the basement. Halfway down, something soft rubbed against her leg and she leapt down the next five steps, nearly rolling an ankle.   “Goddammit Clint!” she swore, looking for the- presumably- rat that had scared her. Instead a pair of bright feline eyes met hers. Jean Harlow rumbled and stepped forward to rub against Peggy’s hand. “How did you get out here, little girl?” she said, lifting the cat into her arms. The cat settled against her chest, and an uneasy feeling began to prickle up Peggy’s spine. Cautiously, she tiptoed down the last few steps and peered down the hallway. Normally there were four lights illuminating the hall to Steve’s door. They were all dark. Peggy fished her phone from her pocket, flipping the flashlight on and shining it down the dark corridor. It was hard to make out, but she thought she could just see the door standing a few inches open, the wood splintered around the lock. And that’s my cue to get the fuck out, Peggy thought, running back up the stairs with the cat clutched tight. She burst into the lobby just as Clint came striding in the front door, his phone glued to his ear.

He held up a hand for her to be quiet and, irate, she started to interrupt. “Someone broke into—”

Clint hung up and looked at her, his face like chalk, “That was the state troopers. They found the challenger abandoned on the side of the highway somewhere in Putnam county.”

For a moment he looked like he was going to be sick. Peggy bit her lip and took a deep breath, “Call Natasha,” she said, “Right now.”


	14. Twitching Like a Finger On the Trigger Of a Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's been happening to Steve and Bucky

After Steve had left in search of junk food Bucky stretched out on the bed and shut his eyes, trying to still his spinning thoughts.  He felt caught up in a whirlpool of half remembered scenes, but somewhere beneath that decades of conditioning still held. That perfectly trained part of his brain ignored the turmoil and mentioned in passing that there were three people approaching down the hall, the weight of their steps indicating tactical boots and heavy gear. He was on his feet, pressed flat behind the door, in an instant. 

The men were well trained. They cleared the corners of the room in perfect synchronicity, and only his heightened reflexes and strength gave him the edge. He didn't recognize them; none of the men had been part of his support teams, but he recognized their gear and their techniques well enough. Hydra had caught up with him. Less than a month earlier that thought had been a paralytic, leaving him without the will to fight or hide. Now it galvanized him. The tortures they'd inflicted on him, the people they'd used him to hurt, everything they'd taken and the few precious things he now had to protect: his freedom, his past, and Steve- above all Steve- flashed through his mind. 

Quickly he sifted through the dead men's gear, taking all the guns and ammo he could easily conceal, then went in search of Steve. He was in the stairwell when the supplementary team hit him with their tasers. The combined shock contracted all his muscles and he went down, falling a full flight of stairs without dislodging the electrodes. The pain was blinding. It sapped all his strength and the only part of him that remained under his control was the metal arm. Using that hand, he plucked the electrodes from his back and remembering the way Steve had crumpled during the attack in the alley he crushed the hated tools furiously. There were three agents staring at him open-mouthed as he advanced on them. He was on them before they'd even drawn their sidearms.

Something caught his eye as it passed the plexiglass window of the stairway door- a familiar blonde head backed by two more black-clad figures. They marched a bloody-nosed Steve to the elevator at gunpoint and pressed the button calling elevator down. They were so close to his friend, with their hard, unforgiving weapons pressed against his fragile bones. He had to get Steve away from them, if it meant giving himself up he would. But too many shards of his past were forcing their way back to the surface for him to believe that they would accept Bucky's surrender and leave Steve unharmed. 

He continued down on foot, pausing to rip the fire extinguishers from the wall as he passed, tucking them under his metal arm. He beat the elevator down, the lobby eerily empty of guests and the few staff who'd been there when they'd arrived. Bucky set the fire extinguishers by the elevator door and retreated, crouching behind the reception desk. When the doors opened, he paused long enough to see that there was no longer a gun to Steve's head, then fired.

 There was a deafening pop and white clouds of foam mushroomed all around them. In the confusion, Bucky surged forward and wrapped an arm around Steve's chest. With Steve secure against his body it was easy to find the others by touch and leave them gushing red out onto the white foam residue.

Outside in the dark parking lot, he loosened his hold on Steve.  “Bucky, oh god are you okay?” Steve’s voice was choked, between the blood coursing from his nose and split lip and the unsteady heaving of his lungs. He took Bucky’s face in his shaking hands.

“I’m alright,” he said, “Come on, we can’t stop here.” 

He took Steve’s hand and pulled him towards the car. By some miracle the keys were still in his pocket. He tossed them to Steve before heaving himself under the car. The Challenger was vintage, no built in vehicle tracking or GPS— they must have bugged it on the trip north. Sure enough, it was there, secured in the wheel well. He tossed it aside and climbed into the driver’s seat.

They sped south until he was certain no one was following them by car, then Bucky pulled over and shut the engine off. “We gotta ditch the car. They’ll be looking for it.”

Steve followed him out of the car. “Clint is going to kill me,” he said holding his sleeve over his still bleeding face. Bucky broke a chunk of ice from the guard rail and handed it to Steve. 

“Thanks,” Steve held it against his nose, “What now?” He stared out at the frozen stretch of road.

“We have to lay low,” Bucky said. He looked at Steve, already shivering jacketless and in his stocking feet. “One of those houses down there,” he nodded at the neighborhoods stretched out below the overpass, “You need to get out of the cold.”

It was a sign of how bad things were that Steve didn’t argue, merely trailed along after Bucky until he came to an empty house with a for sale sign out front. They were inside, huddled together in the basement before Steve spoke again. His nose had finally stopped bleeding and with his face washed Bucky could see the nasty gash one of the Hydra agents had given him running up his lip. Steve consented to take Bucky’s hoodie, and they’d wrapped Bucky’s winter coat around them both.

“I can tell you how this next conversation goes,” Steve said against Bucky’s collarbone, “You’ll say it's too dangerous, that you have to leave to keep me safe. And I might be safe from them if you left, or I might not, that’s beside the point. Because I'm in this now, and I'm staying in it to the end.”

“You have your whole life Steve,” contrary to his words Bucky held Steve tighter, “Your work, your friends— I have no right to tear you away from that.” 

“It’s not your choice to make. I know what I have, and I know what I want to do. We’re going to fight these people together.”

Bucky shifted, “You have no idea what they’re capable of Steve. What it does to me when I think about them getting their hands on you—”

“I know I’m not strong, that I could get hurt. But I can help you, even if just by not letting you be alone. And I couldn't live with myself if I walked away now. If you shut me out, take off and disappear then I'll spend all my time fighting my way back to you. But we won't be together if you do that, and it'll make it more difficult for both of us. So, no noble sacrifices, thanks all the same.”  


“Nothing scares me more than the thought of them hurting you.”

“Nothing scares me more than the thought of them taking you back,” Steve replied simply.

They lay silently together, their breathing slowly syncing up. “Alright,” Bucky whispered at last.

Steve let out a small, relieved huff of air. Bucky could feel Steve’s eyelashes flutter closed against the sensitive skin of his neck. He stroked his thumb gently over Steve’s wrist until he thought the smaller man had fallen asleep.

“I believe you Bucky,” Steve murmured, “But if I wake up and you’re gone, I’ll kick your ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wants very badly to do the I-have-to-leave-for-your-own-good bit, and I was going to let him, but Steve is having none of it, thank you.


	15. Don't Want to End Up a Cartoon in a Cartoon Graveyard

They woke a few hours later, almost in tandem and both already hard against each other. Steve was rocking in Bucky’s arms before he was even fully awake, bossy and possessive. “Mine,” he growled into Bucky’s neck, “Not going anywhere.”

Bucky murmured in assent and rolled onto his back, letting Steve wriggle on top of him. Since his training he was incapable of anything between sleep and full wakefulness, but it was nice to lie back and watch Steve, his eyelids still drooping, his brain still foggy, and let him show Bucky all the things he wanted from him. There was no way they were getting out of their clothes in this state, and no real point to since they’d left everything that might be useful in this situation behind in their bags. Bucky bared his throat to Steve’s nipping kisses and let his friend rut against him through their pants. Steve’s hands traveled from Bucky’s shoulders up over his face and into his hair. Earlier, he’d said that he wasn’t strong and it was true— but Steve’s hands were the strongest part of him and his grip felt good when he dug his fingers into Bucky’s hair and held him in place. Everything was friction, his cock rubbing against the cheap cotton of his boxers, Steve’s unshaven face nuzzling him, even the breaths he drew felt scratchy and labored in his throat, but it was good all the same. They were alive, and together and they wanted each other so, so much.

Neither of them was going to last long. As Steve’s motions grew more frantic, Bucky laid his metal hand lightly on the small of Steve’s back, urging him on. Individual sensations blurred into one, until his eyes shut involuntarily and the tendrils of heat reaching out from his balls and belly shot all the way to his fingertips. He realized dimly that it was over, the movements above him now were just Steve’s breath returning to normal, his hands petting Bucky gently. Steve started to move off him, but Bucky whined in protest and wrapped his arms around Steve. 

“I'm too bony,” Steve said. Bucky shook his head no, “’S nice, means there’s no one else it could be but you.”

He let Steve sleep for a few more hours, until a time when it wasn’t completely bizarre to see people out starting their day. They were within walking distance of the nearest shopping center, and Bucky sent Steve into Walmart with a wad of cash to get a couple of burner cell phones, a new pair of shoes and anything else he thought they might need while Bucky went to “borrow” a new car. It took only twenty minutes, but his gut felt twisted and cold the whole time Steve was out of his sight.

“Do you remember Jim’s phone number?” Steve asked, climbing into the new car with several plastic shopping bags, “We should give him a heads up in case they go after him.”

Bucky felt stricken at the thought of bringing harm on another person who had only tried to help him, but thankfully Morita was nothing more than cross at getting a phone call at six in the morning. He said he’d take his granddaughters up to Montreal for a few days.

“Now what?” Steve asked.

He’d asked him the same thing the night before, and Bucky’d had a short term plan at the time— ditch the car, lose their tail, find shelter and first aid for Steve. Now… he hadn’t been in charge of planning his own missions since the war. “We need a place to regroup, someplace off the grid, that they won’t find right away.” 

“Clint has a farm in Connecticut,” Steve offered, “It doesn’t even have a landline and I’m pretty sure it's all run off of solar and generators.”

“You know how to get there?” he asked. 

Steve fished in one of the bags and pulled out a folded paper road atlas. “I thought we might be going old school,” he grinned.

******************************************************************

Early the same morning, Pepper left the boys— Tony, Rhodey and Bruce — messing with the still grainy footage from the attack and went to take a long, hot bath. She’d always done her best thinking in water- lakes, lap-swimming, long, meditative showers. After months of awful sponge-baths while her scars healed, baths had once again become her favorite un-guilty pleasure. And the bathrooms in Stark Tower were truly glorious. Shortly after she’d begun to go all pruney, the door opened and Tony padded in. He was barefoot and there were darker circles than usual under his eyes.

“How’s it coming?” she asked. He looked almost as bad as he had in those first months after her diagnosis, or when he'd just come home from his capture in Afghanistan.

“Don’t know, they kicked me out after my fourth shot of espresso,” he answered, kneeling beside the tub and resting his head beside hers, “I crashed about six minutes later so I went and took a power nap.”

“Did it help?” she held out a hand to him and he took the hint, shucking his clothes and climbing into the spacious tub with her. It was closer to a hot tub than a bathtub in size, and Pepper seated herself perpendicular, with her legs stretched out across Tony’s own in the warm water, occasionally letting her toes bob to the surface. He took a handful of the fancy Dead Sea salt scrub that she stocked and smoothed it idly into the soles of her feet.

“I had a strange dream.”

“Like the one where you and Michael Fassbender were chumming for sharks?” she teased gently.

“That was one time!" Tony protested, "No. It was about that tattoo artist.”

“Steve Rogers?” she said, “He was cute, in a sort of baby-kangaroo way, and we both know you’ve got a thing for lanky blondes.”

That earned her a smile. “About him, his weird boyfriend, that whole crazy night,” he paused, the smile fading “And my parents. Something I can't quite remember.”

“Stress has strange effects on people,” she said, stroking his hair, “And that reminds me I have an appointment with him today. Jarvis? Can you contact Mr. Rogers and postpone our meeting?”

Jarvis gave his assurances that he would, and Pepper and Tony sat together for a while, soaking peacefully. Ever since _the incident_ with Killian a few weeks after her reconstruction, the water wouldn’t get cold with her in it, and she enjoyed the feel of Tony’s arms around her rib cage, his chin resting against her shoulder. Since before her diagnosis, before Iron Man, reaching back even before his imprisonment it seemed as though their lives had never stopped pitching up and down like a stormy sea for more than an hour at a time. It had been eight months of chemo, followed by the mastectomy and then the reconstruction, and Tony had been on his best behavior throughout. There had still been altercations, times when the Avengers were needed and he’d done what needed to be done for everyone, but he hadn’t taken any extra risks. She suspected he’d been so afraid of losing her that he didn’t dare do anything that might make her angry, make her question his intentions to stick around for the duration. 

Pepper supposed some women in her position would have felt insecure, but she never had. Tony might be slow on the uptake, but once he realized he had a good thing he stuck with it like glue. And then had come _the incident_ ; Killian secretly “innoculating” her with the extremis virus, expecting her to be grateful to him for curing her after she was already NED. She’d been extremely lucky, Bruce had analyzed extremis and determined that it was compatible with only 2.5% of the population, in all others would prove fatal, and it had worked the way it was intended to in her— rapid healing rate, increased energy and strength, higher body temperature and metabolism. She was ready to be done with the whole thing now, get her tattoo so that she could feel like herself again, return to her full duties at Stark Industries, and of course now there was someone else after them.

“I have attempted to contact Steve Rogers on you behalf and discovered some distressing news,” Jarvis’ voice interrupted her reverie.

“What is it?” asked Tony.

“Mr. Rogers' tattoo parlor was vandalized last night, and a friend filed a missing persons report on him this morning.”

Pepper and Tony stared at each other, then rose simultaneously out of the tub. “Coincidence, you think?” asked Pepper. 

“Possible,” he answered, “But someone should check it out all the same, at the very least,” he toweled off and shimmied back into his clothes as Pepper wrapped herself in a plush bathrobe, “We don’t want to lose the best tattoo artist on the East coast.”

“I’ve pulled the information from the police report, as well as surveillance footage from the neighboring stores— it seems the camera in Mr. Rogers’ own shop is a dummy,” Jarvis spoke again, “There’s something you should be aware of. I ran images of everyone coming and going over the last two weeks through the NGI database, it seems difficult to credit, but the man accompanying Steve Rogers’ has a 97% facial match with Captain James Barnes.”

*******************************************************************

In a large, airy office in an imposing building in Washington, Alexander Pierce answered his private cell phone.

“I don’t care to hear your excuses this time any more than I have for the past two years. All I want to know is: what are you doing to find him?”

“We’ve ID’d him as part of a terrorist organization to state and local law enforcement to enlist their help. If anyone spots him within three hundred miles of here, they’ll report back to us. He’s not getting away this time.”

Pierce tapped the stylus for his phone against his teeth irritably, “A sentiment I’ve heard more than once before. What about his new pet?”

“We have surveillance on Rogers’ home and business. If he bails on the Asset we’re ready to pick him up. We’re sure he’d prove helpful in persuading the Asset to come in of his own accord.”

“Good. Keep the trail on Rogers. He’s our best bet now. Oh, and Brock?”

“Yes sir.”  

“If you lose him again, I hope for your sake you’re as good at evading capture as the Asset has proven to be. Hydra doesn’t look kindly on this many failures.”

He ended the call and turned to gaze out at his million-dollar view of the city. It was true, Hydra did not look kindly on failure. Unfortunately for him, the water of this particular failure was rising higher everyday, and now that the Asset had contacted Tony Stark— Pierce didn’t like to think about the possible consequences of that. He’d been complacent, assuming that a half-crazed, memory-addled super soldier wandering the country would inevitably be killed or arrested within days. If the man was beginning to remember, he was potentially a greater threat to Hydra now than he had been during the war. It was time to stop playing hide and seek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Avengers in this AU are: Tony, Rhodey, Bruce, Thor, Sif and maybe Pepper by the time this whole thing with Hydra blows up.
> 
> NED= no evidence of disease, before a person is considered cured of cancer they have to be NED/in remission for four years


	16. We'd Like to Know a Little Bit About You For Our Files

Steve’s joints hurt. When he tried to bend them, they felt like they were wrapped in several layers of cotton batting. But his head was clear, no headache and the crushing sleepiness that had weighed him down the last few times he tried to open his eyes was gone. Images flickered through his memory— driving, he’d called Clint on the disposable cell. There was no way to explain it all over over the phone but Clint was going to meet him at the farm with Sam and Nat. Then what? His mind raced.

Gas station. They’d been almost there, all the way to Danbury and they’d stopped for gas. It had been mid-afternoon, he’d gone inside to give the attendant cash for the pump and when he came out— Bucky. There were more of those men, those Hydra people. Something was wrong with Bucky’s arm, that much was clear. It wasn’t moving, just hanging there like a dead weight while the men beat him. Steve hadn’t thought; he’d shouted for Bucky to duck before he flung himself into the drivers seat and thrown the car into gear, backing straight into the knot of men. The pump, still running, had ripped from the car, gasoline spilling everywhere. The fumes made his eyes water. He’d taken one of the hunting knives Bucky had made him buy and hurled himself out of the car, already swinging. Had he cut one of them? He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could remember red, the metallic smell of blood mingling with the gasoline. Then someone had gripped him by the neck and shoulder, and there was nothing after that. Steve couldn’t even remember if Bucky was still standing at that point. And now—

Cautiously he sat up and looked around him. He was in a hospital room. No, that wasn’t right. He was in a hospital-ish room: tile floor, institutional interior design, like a hotel room that didn’t give a shit, twin bed with a flat but serviceable pillow and mattress. There was no IV or anything hooked to him and he wasn’t injured; bruised and banged up but not injured. His pants were gone, and his shoes. He seemed to be losing a lot of shoes these days. Whoever they were, they’d left just his t-shirt, socks and boxers. The door opened and a man in scrubs entered. 

“Where am I?” Steve asked as the man seated himself on the bed next to Steve.

“How are you feeling? Can you tell me your name?” the man asked pleasantly. He held up a penlight and shone it into each of Steve’s eyes in turn. 

“Steve Rogers. Where am I? What happened to Bucky?”

“Who’s Bucky?” the man asked, noting things down on a tablet.

“My friend, my boyfriend. He’s— What happened at the gas station?” Steve tried to keep the panic out of his voice, to sound calm and reasonable. His hands began to tremble so he hid them in his lap beneath the blanket.

The man continued to make notes, “Steven, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Try not to get too excited. You had a dissociative episode, you’re at Harlem Valley Psychiatric Clinic—”

Steve leapt out of bed, his stockinged feet sliding on the tile floor. “No way. I’m not crazy.”

“Mr. Pierce, I need you to calm down.” 

“That’s not my name! Where’s Bucky? What did you do with Bucky?”

“Your uncle gave us your full medical history, the hallucinations, the delusions, everything. He wants you to get the best care possible so you can go home.”

“You can’t keep me here," Steve's voice was cold now, all traces of hysteria gone, "I haven’t hurt anyone, I’m not a danger to myself or others and I did _not_ commit myself here. I’d like to leave now.”

The man was nonplussed. He tapped at the tablet then held it out for Steve to see. On it were photos of the Forester, the car Bucky had "borrowed" that morning, it had smashed into the glass front of the gas station convenience store. The man scrolled through pictures of the wrecked car, then photos of two men with badly bruised faces, closeups of their swollen shut eyes, deep gashes on their forearms. “That’s what you did to the EMTs who responded to your accident,” the pleasantness was gone from the man’s voice.

Steve shook his head, “They weren’t EMTs. We didn’t crash, we were stopped for gas and they attacked us.”

“Us? Mr. Pierce, you were alone,” he tapped the screen again and a video began to play: forty-five seconds of Steve, berserk, tearing into two men in uniforms who were trying to get him into an ambulance. There were bystanders all around, taking pictures with their phones, but no Bucky.

For a fraction of a moment, Steve almost doubted. All those months of being so goddam lonely, and then finding someone so perfect on the sidewalk, just like that? He pulled his bare, skinny legs into his chest and curled up on himself. “No,” he whimpered, “No no no.” Then he saw it, where his shorts gaped: a dark purple mark on his inner thigh. A love bite. Bucky had left it there the morning before they saw Morita. You didn’t get marks like that from a fight, not even someone who bruised as easily as Steve. This was _them_ , the people who'd tortured Bucky for so long. Steve was in worse trouble than he'd ever been in his life. Adrenaline coursed through him, sharpening his thoughts. Whatever happened now, his best bet was to play dumb. They might not all be in on it, but he wouldn't do himself any favors by ranting and raving. He raised his wet face to the man, “Everything’s all jumbled. What do I do?”

The man smiled again, “Just rest. The orderlies will be around with your meds in fifteen minutes. You’ll see Dr. Sutton tomorrow.” 

  Steve did his best to smile back, “Is my uncle coming to see me?”

“I don’t know, you can ask the doctor about that tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Steve said, settling back on the bed, “I’d like to rest now, if that’s okay.” The man nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Steve leapt to the door and carefully tried the handle. Locked. There was a square glass window next to the bed, but it had no catch that he could find and he was at least six stories up. Outside he could see the grounds of the institution, surrounded by a high wall. He sat back down on the bed and tried to think. It was the next day, Tuesday. He’d seen that on the tablet when the man had handed it to him. And it was nearly five in the evening where he was. Assuming he was still in the same time zone, and he thought he was because dusk seemed to be coming at the time his body expected it, he’d been gone from Bucky for just over twenty-four hours. 

The panic threatened to boil over again when he thought of all the things that could have happened to Bucky in twenty-four hours. He wanted to smash that man’s face with his stupid iPad and its fake pictures, smash it until it split in the middle like a melon. He wanted to go charging out of there, he wanted to seize one of them by the throat and squeeze until they told him where Bucky was. That was the opposite of what he needed to do. He needed to lie low, play along, see what he could find out, maybe earn himself some privileges in this place so he could find a way out or way to contact someone. And for Bucky’s sake he had to do it sooner rather than later. _Keep it together, Rogers_ he told himself, _keep your temper, and keep it together_. After all, it was really just another hospital. And he had plenty of experience getting around those.


	17. My Traveling Companions Are Ghosts and Empty Sockets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Bucky in the interim.

He’d kept his promise to Steve and now _they_ had him. One minute Steve had been beside him, fighting off Bucky’s attackers with nothing but his spit-fire courage and a switchblade. The next, he was vanishing into the back of an ambulance that sped out of the gas station at top speed. No light flashed, no siren, nothing that would give away their direction. Seven agents remained to take care of Bucky. Their first move upon initiating the attack had been to disable his arm. Some kind of injection to the muscles of his shoulder had numbed the nerves there, cutting off whatever pathway from his brain allowed him to use the arm. It was nothing but a useless pendulum, swinging him off balance.

He should have let them take him quietly. If he had, they’d all have gone before Steve returned. Bucky had thrown himself after the fleeing ambulance, and another sting struck him in the back of the neck. His vision went double— ketamine, most likely, and enough to drop a rhino. He staggered and a heavy boot kicked him in the back. As Bucky’s thoughts sputtered like a dying engine, he clung to one thought: no more drugs. He couldn’t take another hit of whatever they’d shot him up with and still be any use to anyone. Better to let them think the first dose had been enough and be taken. 

Firm hands to hold of him and hauled him to his knees, then his feet. There was a small crowd of bystanders gathering at a cautious distance from Bucky and the agents in their tactical garb. One of his handlers detached and moved to reassure the witnesses while the others secured his hands and thrust him into the back of an armored truck, shutting themselves in with Bucky. He lay curled on the cold floor and they waited in stillness until the woman who’d spoken to the bystanders radioed back that everything was taken care of. And then they were moving.

It was no act to stay limp and drooling on the floor, the dosage had been high enough to affect him for at least an hour, residual effects for up to twelve hours going off of previous trials. He didn’t have that kind of time. Bucky shut his eyes and tried to call up some of the hard-learned things he’d been burying ever since his escape. 

Starvation had been a common tool in the early days of his training, under Zola. The scientist had been curious how long he could go without nutrients and maintain certain levels of energy. Karpov and Lukin did not care about such scientific trivialities— they were interested only in establishing control. Bucky found he preferred starvation to the rancid food Karpov allowed him, especially when the punishment for vomiting before he was ordered to was force-feeding. But it had taught him how to keep anything down, or how to make himself ill on command. Twenty minutes later, he coughed up everything he’d eaten that day on the nearest agent’s pants leg and threw himself into the convulsions that sometimes accompany a hit of ketamine.

“Ah- fuck!” the puked on agent cried. Bucky jerked and writhed. 

“Someone get him up, don’t let him roll in it!” said another. A hand took him by the collar and tugged. Bucky used one of his ‘spasms’ to backhand the man. The youngest looking of the agents started to gag.

“Fontaine,” someone roared into the radio, “Pull over, he’s having a bad reaction.”

“Not gonna happen,” crackled the voice from the cab.

The guard with the puked-on pants snatched the radio from his comrade, “Fontaine, pull this truck over now or you can explain to Pierce why a civilian evaded you with a goddamn candy bar.”

They slowed to a stop and the back opened. Everyone looked pissed.

“It was a soda can, not a candy bar,” Fontaine snapped. She looked disgustedly at the sight in the truck. Young agent was actively trying not to vomit too, the one Bucky hit was holding his sleeve over a bloody nose, Bucky was still convulsing weakly on the floor and there was a slowly spreading puddle of sick a few inches from his head. Some of had already gotten in his hair. “Get him cleaned up and—

Bucky flew out of the truck, slamming the doors shut behind him. They locked automatically, one of those special prisoner transports that can only be opened from the outside. Now it was one Hydra agent versus one still woozy Super Soldier. She shot him in the chest before the lock had even clicked. The pain sharpened things. He lurched at her in an ungainly Frankenstein-walk. Bucky gambled that she wouldn’t shoot him in the head, not when the higher-ups so clearly wanted him alive, and he could stand the body shots. From outside, no sound or movement escaped the truck, but over the radio the trapped agents swore and shouted. 

“Stand down, Soldier,” Fontaine barked, looking him in the eye, “Yctyпatь.” 

His vision was blurring again as blood loss aggravated the drugs in his system. The arm still refused to move. He stepped back and leaned against the truck for support. They would keep coming, even if he got away this time too, they would always keep coming. _Fuck that._

“No,” snarled Bucky. He charged her low, knocking her off her feet. She clubbed him with the heavy tungsten butt of the gun hard enough to make his ear bleed. He got his good hand around her throat. “Tell me where they took him, and you can walk away from this,” he grated through clenched teeth.

The agent laughed. She was still laughing when bloody foam filled her mouth and her eyes spun back in her head.

Bucky sat back on his heels. Nausea rolled over him again, involuntarily this time. He collapsed to his side in the dirt and curled in on himself. _Of course she would have a poison capsule— they always did._ Except him of course, the Asset’s life wasn’t his own to take, not even if he were captured and tortured by the enemy.

Furious, he crawled to his feet and stalked to the cab. Fontaine had pulled off the highway before stopping, and they were parked off of a small road surrounded by woods. Bucky picked up the radio.

“Shut up and listen,” he ordered, “If you tell me where the others took my friend I’ll let you live, otherwise you’re looking at your tomb, fellas.”

There was a pop of static then “Agent Fontaine didn’t tell you, did she?” The voice sounded like Puke-Pants.

Bucky kept silent. It was more than likely that none of them knew where Steve had been taken. Fontaine probably had, she was the leader. But the rest of them? He still had to try.

He pressed the button to talk again, “Hey rookie, you with the weak stomach. You want to live through this, don’t you?” It was a long shot. Even if the kid was wet-behind-the-ears, they wouldn’t have sent him if he wasn’t a cold-blooded little bastard. And even if the kid wanted to talk, the others might not let him. “Talk to me and you can get out of there, I don’t imagine it’s a real pleasant place to be right now.”

“Fuck you,” came the reply, “I don’t take orders from objects, asswipe. Hail Hydra.”

The radio crumpled in his fist and Bucky noted with surprise that his left arm had returned to life. _That was it then, he’d have to find Steve some other way._ He drove the truck out into the woods a few miles, tore open the gas tank and set the thing on fire. He was sweaty, dizzy, he had a bad headache coming on, and he’d lost Steve. He couldn’t go back to the highway. He could think of only one place to go, the place Steve had been taking them for safety. He limped his way the last twenty miles to the Barton farm.


	18. But the Fighter Still Remains

If he could have remembered his school days, and how hopeless he was at memorization back then, Bucky would have been amazed at his uncannily perfect recall of the map Steve had shown him. He was off their planned route by at least fifteen miles, but it was easy to remember the surrounding roads and highways and plan out an alternate route to Clint’s farm. He kept to the side of the road, hiding from any passing car. He jogged when he could, and walked when the dizziness swarmed him. It took five hours, and he arrived at the battered mailbox with the bullseye pattern just before midnight. The house stood on several acres of land, no power lines or phone lines leading to it which gave Bucky the first reassurance he’d had since they’d left Jim. As he approached he could hear a generator humming. There were lights on inside. Bucky crouched beneath a window and peered in at the gathered group.

Clint, Kate, Natasha, Sam and Peggy all sat around the huge oak table in the dining room. Kate was clutching Jean Harlow. The rest were talking earnestly, checking their phones from time to time for messages.

“Still no word of anyone matching his description in any jail or hospital in the tri-state area,” said Sam.

Clint was rocking his chair back on its legs, thumbing the string of the bow he had slung across his knees like a security blanket. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. What do we _do_? We can’t just sit and wait for Steve to turn up.”

“Babe,” asked Sam looking at Natasha, “Any info from those friends of yours that we aren't supposed to know about?”

Natasha sighed. Even from a distance Bucky could see that she looked worn. She’d driven out there without changing after her show and wore a grey hoodie over a purple bodice that made her look like an Edwardian lady vampire. Her makeup was still perfect but she’d been playing with her hair, pulling it out of its careful Gibson Girl up-do. “I’m waiting to hear back from them. It was— kind of an unusual request.” There was quiet for a moment, then Natasha announced that she was going to make tea. She padded off in all her satin and terrycloth glory.

Bucky slid along, beneath the window, trying to decide if he had the strength to scale the building to find an open upper story window. In the space between one inhale and the next, someone slipped up behind him and pressed a very sharp knife against his jugular— Natasha.

“Get up, walk inside slowly. Keep your hands behind your back where I can see them.” Her words were emotionless and cold. Bucky obeyed.

She herded him into the kitchen. All eyes fixed accusingly on him. His first instinct was to attack. But he couldn’t hurt these people— Steve loved them. And he might need them to help get Steve back.

Clint began to rise. Kate dropped the cat and took hold of his arm. Peggy fumed silently. Sam kept his gaze on Natasha.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked, mirroring her calm.

“Where the fuck is my friend?” demanded Clint. Peggy spoke over him, “If you’ve hurt him I swear to god—”

Natasha held up a hand for silence, not moving the one with the knife away from Bucky’s throat. She prodded Bucky towards an empty seat and stood in front of him, regarding him curiously.

“You’re Captain America.”  

Bucky would have been less surprised in that moment if she’d kissed him, or stabbed him or started to sing the national anthem. “I was,” he admitted. 

“But that’s not all you are, is it?”

“…No. That’s not all.”

The rest of the group stared at the two of them saucer-eyed. 

“Babe?” Sam started to ask. 

Peggy leaned in, squinting at Bucky, “What the actual fuck, Natasha?” 

Kate typed something into her phone, then held it at arms length, glancing between the screen and Bucky’s pale face.

“This is beyond crazy,” said Clint, “I trust you, Nat, you know I do. But this— this is Hannibal Lecter on shrooms crazy. Are you really going to risk Steve’s life on this? How can you be sure?”

“I’m not,” she replied, “That’s why I called my old boss. He’ll have access to the biological samples archived from the original Erskine experiments. We can do a DNA test to confirm James’ identity. In the meantime, we’ll go under the assumption that he is who I suspect he is and find out who’s taken Steve. If we learn who, we can learn where.” She lowered the knife for the first time, “I take it you came here because you want to find him too?”

“Yes,” his voice was hoarse with relief, “God yes.”

****************************************************************************

The man who comes to see him is handsome in a distinguished-older-man sort of way. He leans too close to Steve over the small table, letting his polished shoes brush against Steve’s slippered feet. 

“Have they been treating you well here, Steve?” he asked genially, “I’m Alexander Pierce, by the way.”

Steve only scowled at him.

“No need for such hostility, Steve. I’m here to negotiate your release,” he opened a briefcase and held up an orange pill bottle and something that looked like a bluetooth set attached by a wire to a device that looked like a TV remote. “You’re the ideal candidate for this mission. You have the Asset’s trust, you can get close to him. These—” he indicated the pills, “Can go into any beverage. They’re tasteless and will take effect within ten minutes if he gets the full dose. This—” waving the device, “Is a very basic, portable electroshock. We’ll give you full instructions on how it works before you leave here. Eight to twelve minutes on the lowest setting will reverse enough of the damage done over these past months so that we can return him to our facility and begin rehabilitating him.”

All his life Steve had struggled to keep his anger at bay. He got angry in the way that only really sick kids can be at the fucked-up hand life dealt them. He got angry in the glorious, righteous way that came from doing the right thing when nobody else would bother. Only once before— not when his mom had died, but when he had finally accepted that she wasn’t going to beat the tumors gnawing on her— had he felt the incandescent, howling rage that course through him now. 

“Go fuck yourself.” It was the only thing he could physically form the words to say.

“You’ll be well rewarded. We have many resources. And in my experience I’ve found that everyone has a price.”

“You can’t buy me off Pierce. I’m not afraid of you.”

“Oh, not with money. I can tell that much about you already. But you’re thinking inside the box, Steve. There’s so many things a person can be bought with besides money.” He leaned over and took hold of Steve’s wrists. “There’s life of course, and freedom, but those just as obvious as money. I have lots of other things I can offer you: your spine… your feet… your balls. But I thought my first offer would be: your hands. Get me my property, and I won’t have Mr. Rollins out there crack every one of your fingers in half.”

There was nothing human in the voice or in the eyes. It might as well have been some alien creature who had never seen a human before speaking to him. Steve’s insides seemed to dry up— his lungs, his throat, his eyes— everything was rough and stinging. 

“Say it again, Steve. Tell me you’re not afraid of me.”

“I am afraid of you.”

“You should be. Most people have more to lose than they can possibly imagine until you point it out for them. Right now, I’ll bet that even your lonely, shit-hole apartment and all your mother’s debt collectors look cozy and inviting. Think of it Steve, think of everything you want to do with your life— all the people you’ve helped so far and how many you could help in the future. Are you going to throw all of that away for a man you barely know? A man who has done awful things?” Pierce’s voice was low, breathy and intimate.

“I am afraid,” Steve repeated, “But— ” he took a deep, shaking breath, “That’s not going to make me turn on Bucky.”

The man actually pouted. “Too bad,” he replaced the device and shut the briefcase, “Well, I’ll be back tomorrow. You might feel differently then. Mr. Rollins—” he called to the lackey who’d been standing guard at the door throughout the interview, “Just two today, I think, and leave the thumbs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: how Natasha knows what she knows and what she intends to do about it


	19. I’d Rather Feel the Earth Beneath My Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Natasha backstory.

At fourteen, Natasha dreamed about ballet every night. She did not dream the way most young girls dream of being a ballerina- with awe and longing. She danced in her dreams because even asleep, she couldn’t get away from the goddamn ballet. Every time there was a flash of complaint in her eyes (never spoken, but sometimes, infuriatingly, escaping through her expression) her parents would remind her of their sacrifice, of their proud family tradition. Their eyes shone when they spoke of the famed productions of Firebird her mother had danced, and they wept when they retold stories of Baryshnikov and Nureyev and others who had risked their lives and abandoned the motherland for the sake of their art. Natasha imagined herself walking out of the theater one night, like Baryshnikov, sprinting for a cab and telling the driver to take her as far away as possible.

She was seventeen when she defected from ballet. The LaGuardia High School for the Performing Arts saw many famous performers and artists come to give career advice to the graduating classes. One of them brought with him a bodyguard who saw Natasha’s perfect balance and her restless eyes, and information about her made its way along some shadowy grapevine until a federal recruiter left two messages on her parents’ answering machine and sent her a brown envelope with a dozen pages of forms to fill out. Her parents still looked at her with pride, but now with puzzlement and a little distrust. They loved a little girl who danced like an angel, but what could they say to a young soldier-in-training?

The powers that be decided it would be best for her to enlist in the military in the usual way, and monitor her training and advancement sub rosa. For ten years, Natasha solved puzzles and fought men twice her size and enjoyed herself more than she had ever imagined. Her mother died in 2006, while Natasha was in Chile. She heard of it five months after the funeral, ten days before her father would move back to Russia. 

Her apartment on the upper west side was stylish and empty. When she stayed there between assignments, there was barely time for the refrigerator to get cold enough to store food before she was off again. Sometimes she found things on her travels— carpets in Istanbul, dresses in Paris, art in Tokyo— which she bought, and sent home to New York. But they were never unpacked. Natasha went on adventures, doing dangerous things for dangerous people, and in between she lived surrounded by boxes. Until she began to suspect that she might be in fact, doing bad things for bad people. 

It was a challenge to fight her way back to the side of the angels, but for the most part she’d succeeded. Fury, Coulson, Hill and her other fellow agents were brave and clever, which was the most that could be asked for in their line of work. Still, she was tired, and worse— she was bored. That Fury allowed her to retire with only moderate coaxing showed that he was really a decent man, not the kind who’d wring his people until they were too warped to return to any other kind of life. It felt safe to leave with him in charge. Natasha had given him a year’s worth of intel on Tony Stark, as a going-away present.

So she found herself unpacking her accumulated treasures and teaching krav maga to soft civilians. Sometimes when she played the radio in her apartment, Natasha surprised herself by dancing happily to the music. One day a skinny guy with a fat lip and bruised knuckles came to her class, and she partnered with him because there were an uneven number of students and none of the others wanted to practice with someone they were afraid to hit. Steve Rogers took her at her word when she told him to hit her with all the strength he could muster. He was the only man she’d had in her class who’d done that, and Natasha felt a flush of pride for him when he finally managed to raise a few light bruises. She agreed to join him and a woman who turned out not to be his girlfriend for drinks at a burlesque club after class one evening. Natasha watched the dancers arch and shimmy, and it was love at first sight. 

“Yes!” Steve had cheered when she told him she was thinking of trying it herself, “You’ll be a genius at it! And I know Peggy would help you with the costumes if you ask.” Five months later she was the third featured dancer in the New York School of Burlesque’s spring show and teaching her own burlesque classes.  
———————————————————  
The group listened to Bucky’s tale with impassive expressions. “That’s some story,” Sam said he had finished, “So Captain America ended up as a POW, brainwashed and working for the enemy he set out to eradicate in the 40s. That is seven layers of messed up.”

“The important thing now is finding Steve,” Natasha said. So far there had been no reply from Fury or Hill. “Bucky, if you can identify which people within the DOD and SHIELD are working for Hydra, I can track their bank accounts and phone records.” 

She handed him her iPad. “Scroll through these pictures, if any of them is someone you know from Hydra, let me know.”

Bucky took the tablet and studied each face carefully. “This one,” he said pointing, “And him, and that man.” 

They all craned their heads to look. “Holy fuck,” said Sam, “That’s Alexander Pierce.”

At that moment, the beam of headlights flashed across the dining room and there was the sound of a car crunching on gravel. 

“Who’s that?” asked Peggy. Bucky and Natasha looked questioningly at each other.

“I’m not expecting anymore company,” Clint offered, “Unless— Kate, please tell me you ordered a pizza?”

Kate shook her head no.

“You three go upstairs,” Natasha ordered Clint, Peggy and Kate. She turned to Sam, “Babe, you and Captain Barnes cover me from the kitchen.” 

She padded to the door in her bare feet, pulling her SIG from the pocket of her hoodie. Sam and Bucky crouched inside the kitchen door, eyes on Natasha. Whoever had arrived actually rang the doorbell. Natasha glanced at them, one eyebrow raised. Sam returned the look with a don’t-ask-me frown and trained his sights on the front door. Natasha opened it as though she was, in fact, expecting a pizza delivery.  
“Agent Romanov, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? I’m here looking for Captain America. You haven't seen him by any chance?”

Natasha sighed and holstered her gun. “Come in, Tony.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays, I should be posting more regularly now that the holidays are over.


	20. A Nation Turns Its Lonely Eyes to You

“I have The Avengers in my house.” Clint’s grin was so wide he looked like he might be in rictus. “I have. The goddamn Avengers. In my house.”

Stark had brought Bruce and Rhodey with him. Colonel Fury had accompanied them as well. “We just gave him a ride, for environmental reasons,” Stark insisted, “Do you know how much gas those government SUVs burn? He’s not ‘with us’ per sé.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow at her former mentor. “Is that Stark’s usual egocentric insecurity, or is there another reason he’s giving you the cold shoulder?” The group had reconvened around Clint’s dining table. Bucky remained aloof, standing by the kitchen door regarding the new arrivals with unease. Sam stood next to him for what Bucky suspected was partly moral support, partly to prevent him from fleeing.

Fury’s voice was even and assured, “The powers that be have accepted Stark’s intel. They’re willing to admit that facial recognition software confirms our one-armed friend as a match to Captain Barnes. As far as these Hydra sleeper agents within SHIELD, there we have to tread more carefully. Some of those people above my pay grade at SHIELD may be involved.”

“That’s why you decided: Avengers assemble!” Clint interjected. He turned to Kate and whispered, “I’ve always wanted to say that.” She kicked him under the table.

“That,” said Natasha, “And the fact that ordinary agents haven’t got much of a chance at subduing Captain America. Look at Hydra’s track record.”

“We know,” said Rhodey, “We’re Earth’s mightiest heroes— supremely strong and beyond reproach. Believe me, Stark doesn’t need to hear it ever again for the rest of his life. Tell him what you told us, Colonel.” 

Fury looked almost uncomfortable. “With SHIELD compromised, I have to salvage what I can. This is bigger than one person.” He kept his gaze on Natasha.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“I can ignore stupid orders when I must,” he glanced at Bucky for the first time, “You and I have that in common I think. Or rather, Captain America and I have that in common. From what I hear, you got real good at following orders for a while.”

Bucky blinked at him. “What do you want?”

“I can offer you all of our assistance— Iron Man, War Machine, the Hulk, I’ve got trusted agents contacting our Asgardian friends. All of that to find your friend and stop Hydra. But it’s going to leave SHIELD in shambles. I’ll need new blood to keep it going.” The gaze of that one, unflinching brown eye felt like an icy wind on Bucky’s neck.

“You won’t help us find Steve unless Bucky agrees to work for SHIELD,” said Peggy quietly. She looked at the three men with sudden fierceness, “Why don't you tell him to fuck off? You’re the Avengers, you don’t need his permission!”

“But they do need my help,” Fury continued, “Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes presumably wants to continue his military career, Dr. Banner enjoys no longer being a fugitive from the D.O.D. I may not have anything concrete to offer Mr. Stark, but as antisocial as he is, he knows that his friends benefit from having SHIELD liaise between them and the policy makers who understand nothing about them. Bureaucracy is harder to dismantle even than Hydra, Ms. Carter.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his scalp, “None of us exists in a vacuum, not even supersoldiers. I’m not forcing Mr. Barnes’ cooperation for fun. The Avengers are affective, but unsubtle. If Barnes comes aboard as an ordinary agent, no Winter Soldier, no Captain America— he could be the linchpin that keeps the wheels from falling off this country.”

“Yes.” All eyes turned to Bucky. “If you get Steve back safe, the answer is yes.”

*************************************************************************************

Steve stared at the patients around him in the rec room. A TV in the corner played the kind of daytime talk shows he’d hated sitting through in hospital waiting rooms as a kid. He picked at the splints on his fingers. Pierce had watched with a pained, sympathetic expression when his lackey had snapped the pinky and ring finger of Steve’s left hand. Steve let himself cry out. He’d learned early on that vocalization really did make pain more bearable, and hearing him scream might please Pierce. It might make the man think he had control over Steve.

Who was he kidding? He _did_ have control over Steve. What they’d done had been barely a canapé in the feast of pain that waited. After, a nurse had splinted and bandaged his fingers at Pierce’s request and administered an injection of something Steve guessed was codeine, while the man smugly explained that his nephew had become agitated and struck the brick. Steve tried to decide if the nurse believed him, or if he knew what was going on here and the story just made it more palatable. 

That evening he’d received a little paper cup with two pills. Twenty milligrams of oxycodone was higher than the usual dose, and Steve suspected that the pain meds were just another thing Pierce would use to manipulate him. He palmed them, and the two offered with breakfast the next morning. Without the slight floatiness of the meds to keep his mind off things, Steve ached and fretted. The dullness of hospital life seemed to be universal, whatever kind of facility it was. His hand throbbed, and he could feel the pain and fear making him mean. It always happened at some point. Eventually the hurting would seep off his nerve endings and into his brain, making him hate everyone and everything.

He hated Pierce. He hated this place. He hated the staff who were either ignorant or corrupt or both. He hated the other miserable patients. He hated the TV, and the chess set that was missing two rooks and a knight. He hated Bucky for not rescuing him. Fuck Bucky. Where was he, was he even looking for Steve? Maybe he’d just go back on the run, never to be heard from again. He should have been honest with Steve from the start, after everything Steve had done for him. Maybe none of this would have happened. Tears stung Steve’s eyes. 

Pain always won, he’d learned that as a kid. He couldn’t keep his temper, even with nice kids, when he hurt this bad in his back, or his knees or his head. There were days when the pain made him say hateful things, even to his mom. She forgave him, she knew where it came from. Pierce knew too, although he’d clearly learned about it from the other side. Steve took a deep breath. _You can do this_ he told himself. _Get it together Rogers. They’re looking for Bucky, which means he’s still alive and he will come for you. You have to help him_.

For the rest of the morning he watched the orderlies. None of them looked overtly like members of a neo-Nazi cabal set on world domination. Not that he knew what such people would look like. The ones he’d seen so far looked pretty normal, no Red Skull types. Steve wondered if that had really been true about Johann Schmidt, or if it was just propaganda. He watched the orderly, a splotchy guy in his thirties, dispense midday meds. When it was his turn at the window, Steve threw caution to the wind and hissed, “Nice med swapping, Dr. House.”  
The man jerked his head up at stared at Steve. “You’re full of shit man,” he spat, but he gave Steve the little paper cup with the oxy.

Steve leaned closer to the glass partition, “I’ve been watching you.” He fished his old pills out of the little pocket he’d made in his bandage and pushed them towards the man. “Let me use your phone and you can keep my dose, and I won’t tell everyone what you’re doing.”

He pretended to swallow the new dose and arched an eyebrow at the orderly. The man’s eyes darted around quickly. “Who’re you gonna call?”

“My girlfriend,” Steve shrugged. The man looked doubtful. “Come on, I just want to hear her talk dirty to me one more time before she dumps me for someone who’s not certifiable.”

That made the guy laugh. He slid the pills off the counter and out of sight. “Go wait by that door,” he jerked his head towards the orderlies’ lounge.

Steve turned away with a small smile, his heart pounding and adrenaline blocking out all the pain.


	21. Sailing Right Behind

“Five minutes,” the guard whispered, pressing the cell phone into Steve’s hand.

“Come on, that’s enough time!” protested Steve. “At least fifteen minutes!”

“Ten and that’s it.” Steve quit while he was ahead. The guard left, glancing nervously around to see if anyone had noticed the hand off. So far so good. Steve scooted back to his room as quickly as he could without calling attention to himself. He was sitting with his back to the wall, out of the sightline of the little window in the door, when he realized he didn’t know the number of Bucky’s disposable phone. Moreover, he didn’t know the number of _any_ of his friends’ cells. _Fuck fuck shitting fuck._ What was Nat’s number? 929-45…something. Or 42 something? Steve concentrated as hard as he could, but his brain was frozen by the seconds ticking away until Orderly Streetvalue would expect his phone back. 

He could call 911, but that would definitely give the game away and what if the first responders here were on Pierce’s payroll? Or if they weren’t he could be getting a bunch of innocent cops and firefighters killed. He tried the number of his shop’s landline not really expecting an answer unless maybe Peggy had stopped by as she sometimes did. All he got was his own voice on the answering machine. Steve started to sweat. Finally he punched in the only phone number he could remember by heart in its entirety. 

“Dynasty Chinese, pick up or delivery?” It was a voice Steve hadn’t heard in nearly a year, but the cadence was so familiar he could have cried.

“Eunji? It’s Steve Rogers.” 

There was silence, then, “Hi. Steve,” her voice was clipped. “It’s been a while.” She didn’t sound at all like the cheeky teenager who used to badger him for his opinions on her myriad tattoo ideas while their moms chatted about the nightmare patients and customers they each juggled that week.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed shakily, memories of months when miso soup was all his mom had been able to keep down flashing through his mind. Mr. and Mrs. Han and their daughter had taken to delivering quarts of it three times a week when Steve was too tired and frazzled to go grocery shopping or cook, even adding dumplings for Steve. He’d thanked them politely at the funeral, paid the tab and then stopped going to their restaurant. 

“So,” Eunji continued, “Pick up or delivery?”

Steve swallowed. “I’m sorry. And I know I’ve been an asshole, not talking to you guys anymore after Mom— " 

”My parents think you’re mad at them, that they did something wrong.”

”No! It was me, it was everything. Everything from before, it just... hurt.”

”You could have told us Steve. We would’ve understood.” Her voice softened.

"I’m so sorry, but I literally couldn’t think of anyone else to call.” It was his own fault. Isolation was a reflex and it always felt like a defense mechanism at the time, but deep down he knew it wasn’t fair to his friends, or good for him. And now it might even end up costing him his only chance of being rescued.

The anger faded from his friend’s voice when she spoke again, “Is everything okay Steve? You sound like you're in some kind of trouble.”

“Yeah, I’m— ” he tried to think of a good explanation, “I need to reach a friend of mine, but I’ve lost my phone and I don’t remember the number.”

“Hmm. Well, does this friend live in Brooklyn? ‘Cause you can give me the address and I’ll go over there and find her.”

Giddy with relief, Steve gave her Peggy’s address. Then a thought struck him. “It might not be safe. I think someone might be…” he paused trying to find a way to explain that wouldn’t sound like a James Bond movie, “…stalking me. And my friend.”

“Seriously? Should I call the cops, where are you?”

“The cops can’t do anything,” he said hurriedly. “Not enough evidence.”

“Shit. Well, I can take an order of food over, no one will think twice about that,” she answered, “Just tell me what you need them to know.”

“Thank you, I owe you guys so much,” said Steve.

“Yeah, yeah,” Eunji answered, “You can make it up to me with some free ink now that I’m eighteen.”   


“Or I could make it up to you parents by _not_ giving you free ink,” Steve could feel the adrenaline bubbling up inside him, making him want to laugh and cry at the same time.

She snickered. “Bye Steve. Try not to be such an asshole, and hang in there.”

  
*************************************  


Clint’s dining room had begun to resemble air-traffic control at JFK on a holiday weekend. There were laptops and electronics he couldn’t name that Stark had unpacked and set up all over the table. Sam and Nat were leaning over Rhodes’ shoulder, talking about hacking traffic cameras and security footage in a fifty-mile radius of the place Steve  
was abducted while Bucky paced agitatedly behind them. Colonel Fury barked orders into his phone. Stark and Banner were fussing with something on one of the Iron Man gauntlets that would, presumably, help save Steve once he was found.

“Ahem,” Peggy cleared her throat as she stepped back into the room, Kate trailing after her. Nobody noticed. “Excuse me,” she tried again. Still nothing. Right you lot, listen up!” Six sets of eyebrows raised as everyone turned to face her. Her voice became came once more, “Sharon texted me. She just got a message from Steve, with his location.”

There was the sound of chairs all around the room being scraped back as everyone leapt to their feet. 

“What? How?” asked Clint.

“He sent her an order of lo mein. The delivery girl gave her the message. She said he’s at the Five Gardens Psych Hospital.”

There was a small tornado of activity. Clint seized Peggy and swung her in a circle. Sam did a quick google search and announced that the hospital was three hours away, in New York. Tony, Natasha and Rhodes began assembling weapons and storing anything that wasn’t worn in black duffel bags.

Tony and Rhodey went ahead in their respective armor. It was a tense moment when Rhodes proposed that they let the others follow by car, while Captain Barnes had alternately pleaded and snarled that he be the one to go. But since neither suit was fitted for an vibranium arm, and _not_ sending someone ahead in the armor just meant leaving Steve captive for that much longer, he’d despairingly stood down and watched them go with a blank face. Tony saw the black SUV pull out of the driveway a moment later and go tearing down the street. It felt good to be doing something, and Steve deserved a medal for getting in touch with them because Pierce had so many aliases and agents and each of those agents had aliases. And each alias had dummy accounts. Sorting through all of them to find which one they were using to hide Steve would have been a nightmare.

It was a simple flight plan southwest to Westchester County where the hospital was. There was nothing interesting to see with his night vision and Tony used the forty minutes it would take him to get there doing what he always did when his thoughts threatened to tripwire him like Lilliput’s army— he called Pepper.

“You found Steve?” she asked anxiously.

“More like he found us,” Tony said, “He’s a resourceful little sonofabitch.”

“Thank god,” Pepper said, “Then why do you sound that way?”

“What way?”

“The way you did when you first got home. Like you ate all the candy but now you’ve got a bad taste in your mouth.”

“I don’t like Fury telling us what to do. I gave him the intel on Barnes because I thought he was a threat.”

“Isn’t he? He was more than a threat in 1975.”

Tony sighed. “He’s a dangerous guy. So’s Banner. So’re Rhodey and Thor. So am I. So are you. We’re a dangerous crowd.”

“Deadly is as deadly does. Baby, be honest- is this about your parents?”

He shook his head. “No. And yes. Getting him the hell away from Hydra and SHIELD and any other nefarious government behemoth would be the best way for me to feel better about that. It’s the Winter Soldier I want dead, and I think Barnes wants the same thing. He’s— he looks the way I felt when I thought you— ”

“When I fell two hundred feet?”

“Yeah, that.” Neither of them said anything for a moment. Tony went on, “Besides, dad always liked the guy.”

There was a smile in Pepper’s voice, “Are you sure you’re not enjoying the Harry Potter parallels a bit too much? Father’s best friend wrongfully blamed for his death, son grows up to exonerate and save him.” 

“Ha. If anything Rowling ripped off my life. And they weren’t best friends. Dad just said that Barnes was the only one in HQ who wasn’t full of shit.”

“High praise coming from Howard.”

Tony laughed. “Fury’s not wrong, and he’s not a bad guy. I don’t blame him for wanting to keep the safety on with his little arsenal, and if he’s got a colony of double agents inside SHIELD that’ll be harder to get rid of than black mold. He really could use the Winter Soldier’s help. But the rest of us can tell him to go play in traffic if we want to. Barnes… If Fury get’s him, he’s got. This is the first time the guy’s had any kind of agency in decades. He just starts dreaming about a normal life again, taking his fella down to the malt shop, and bam! He’s back working for a bunch of ring-wraiths in bespoke suits.”

Pepper spoke slowly, “He’ll follow Fury’s orders because he thinks he owes him. He’ll get used to following orders again and it won’t be as bad as Hydra. But someday Fury won’t be there, and who knows what the new regime will be? Tony, we’ve got to get him away from SHIELD.”

“Well now that you’ve said it too I feel much better about trying to help a former assassin evade the US government.”

“If Barnes won’t do anything until Steve is safe, you can’t do anything until Steve is safe.”

“Right,” Tony agreed, “Step one: liberate Steve Rogers. Or as I like to call it: Operation Stringbean.”

Pepper snorted.


	22. The Stars Were White As Bones

The lights in his room buzzed to life, waking Steve after a few hours of restless sleep. It was still dark out, too early for morning bed-check. Steve was fully alert and out of bed before the door burst open and three men in tactical gear swarmed in. He recognized the leader from the motel, and behind him Rollins- the one who’d snapped his fingers. The leader seized Steve by the arm and hauled him out the door. His hand circled Steve’s entire bicep.

“Get him out of here, move!” The man shoved him at Rollins, who grabbed Steve around the back of the neck and squeezed just hard enough to make Steve see spots. They marched him past the orderlies’ station and Steve caught a glimpse of Orderly Streetvalue standing between three other armed figures, tears streaming down his face. Steve looked away.

“Up to the roof,” the leader barked and the other squad hauled the orderly along behind them. They paused at the stairwell door. Ringleader placed one gloved hand under the orderly’s jaw and spoke low and calm. “You’ve got one chance to make this right. Once he’s in the chopper, you come back down here, you pull the fire alarm. Everyone scurries around, and _this one_ —” he swatted Steve on the back of the head, “Gets away in the confusion. Got it?”

The orderly nodded dumbly. Steve had never seen anyone literally quake at the knees before. Then he was being hauled up the stairs. When the roof door opened and the cool night air hit his face, he began thrashing in Rollins’ grip. It did no good, there was no way he could break the man’s hold on him. Steve abruptly changed tactics. He threw himself towards Rollins, practically leapt into the man’s arms, and aimed for the only exposed skin. He closed his teeth around Rollins’ nose and hung on like a terrier. His teeth always had been the only part of him that had never needed any fixing, they were strong and straight and sharp. 

“Rumlow- fucking get him off me!”

Over Rollins’ cursing and the blood pounding in his ears, Steve could hear the others laughing at their compatriot. Now Rollins was trying to thrash Steve off to no avail as Steve snaked his arms around the big man’s neck and his legs around Rollins waist and jerked his head back and forth.

“Alright, alright,” the leader laughed, “That’s enough.” He tapped Steve lightly across the small of the back with his baton. “Let him go.”

One of the others cried, “We’ve got incoming!” and all heads were swiftly turned towards the streak of light that hit the helicopter, splintering the blades and smashing the tail. Steve couldn’t see what was happening but he felt the STRIKE team abandon Rollins to his pint-sized attacker.

“That’s Iron Man and War Machine! On your six!” someone yelled.

Rumlow shouted back, “Form up! King, radio in for back up. Rollins- quit fucking around!”

Rollins hit Steve twice in the temple with a closed fist before flinging him off. Steve landed hard on his back with a chunk of Rollins’ cartilage in his teeth. He looked up just in time to roll away from Rollins’ boot coming down on one of his kidneys. Bursts of gunfire were going off and blasts of flame were streaking back and forth.

“On the ground,” one of the STRIKE guys turned his rifle on the hospital drive where a black SUV skidded to a halt, “Tell me that’s our back up.”

Rumlow shook his head. “Still twelve minutes out.” The rifleman opened fire on the vehicle as four figures dashed inside.   “Fuck, they’re in the building!”

Rollins was still kicking furiously at Steve, blind to the chaos around them. He landed every third or fourth blow. Rumlow bellowed at him that they needed Steve alive but his orders barely registered with his enraged subordinate. He charged towards them, shoving Rollins away.

“You goddam moron, he’s our only way out of this!” Rumlow took Steve by the collar of his scrubs and hauled him to his feet, placing the barrel of his SIG against the soft underside of Steve’s chin. “Bite me and I’ll pop your eyes out of your skull,” he said.

Something exploded beside them and Rumlow looked away for a split second. Steve made his move. It was a move he’d used on bigger guys since the second grade, and it was hard with pain from Rollins’ kicks and his broken fingers but easier in the loose, oversized scrubs. Steve raised his arms and slid straight out of his shirt. He stumbled only briefly and then he was sprinting for the stairway door. 

Behind him, Rumlow was inches from getting a hand around Steve’s neck. The darting outlines of the Iron Man suits made his already sore head spin. He reached the open door a hairs’ breadth ahead of Rumlow and pitched forward down the stairs. It hurt like hell, but gravity got him down them fast enough to keep him away from his pursuer.

Steve hit the first landing on his hands and knees. He was winded and the pain kept piercing its insistent beak up through the adrenaline. He glanced back and saw Rollins stalking down after him, one hand pressed to his bleeding face, the other on his gun. Steve scrambled to his feet and threw himself against the door out onto the top floor. It was locked. Panting, he turned and fled down the next flight of stairs. The door there was locked as well. On the next flight down, something in his knee gave and he fell.

“Gonna break off all your fingers,” Rollins chanted as he made his way leisurely down to where Steve lay, holstering his pistol, “ _And_ your nose, _and_ your toes, _and_ your balls, _and_ — ”

A silver hand seized Rollins by the hair and bent his head backwards. And kept bending. And kept bending. Steve heard him make a gurgling noise before his neck snapped and Bucky tossed his body aside.

He knelt and whispered Steve’s name like a prayer. Steve smiled at him like an idiot. He levered himself into a sitting position and Bucky wrapped his human arm around Steve’s shoulders. He was careful as he helped Steve up, but the movement still jarred in every joint and muscle. Steve touched Bucky’s face, more haggard and stubbled now that it had been the first time they’d met.

“You found me,” Steve said.

Bucky shook his head. “You found me.”


	23. A Pocketful of Mumbles

The red dot of a rifle sight appeared on Steve’s bare chest. Bucky hissed and jerked Steve against him, curling himself protectively over Steve. A bullet caught him above the shoulder blade. He twitched once and spun, keeping Steve behind him. More Hydra agents were streaming back in and down the stairs now, Rumlow at the front.  


“Come on,” Bucky said, steering Steve down the next flight of stairs. Steve’s knee was rapidly swelling, and pain jackknifed through him at the slightest weight. They ducked around a corner and Bucky dropped to one knee, holding out an arm to Steve.

“Get on my back,” he ordered. Steve’s face made the involuntary pout that meant he was about to start at least a twenty minute argument. Bucky huffed in exasperation. “Now isn’t the time, just do it!”

Scowling, Steve climbed onto Bucky’s back. Firing on the pursuing Hydra agents, Bucky backed down the last flight of stairs and out into the hospital atrium. He slipped into the intake office and dropped down behind the counter. Steve let go and found himself sitting beside Natasha, calmly laying out a series of handguns. She gave him a one sided smile.

“Stark and Rhodes have the roof covered, no air support sighted— ” There was a resounding boom from outside. “…And that sounds like Sam and Fury just took out the back-up. That leaves how many inside the building?”

“Three,” answered Bucky.

“Soldier!” It was Rumlow’s voice coming from the stairway. Bucky stiffened. “Time to come out.”

“Who is that guy?” whispered Steve.

“My last handler.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse and desperate.

“His name’s Brock Rumlow,” Natasha sounded dispassionate, almost disdainful, but Steve could see the tension in her jawline. “He’s supposed to be a SHIELD agent. I’ve worked with him before. Big ego but he’s not dumb.”

“You’ve had your fun,” Rumlow called. “The more you prolong this the greater the chance you’ll get someone killed. Maybe it’ll be one of your pet’s friends. Maybe it’ll even be him.”

Steve saw a new, wilder look in Bucky’s eyes. “Don’t listen to him.”

“We don’t want any of them Soldier, come on out and we’ll leave here, and everything will go back to how it’s supposed to be.” He paused as though waiting for an answer. “Do you know how much damage you’ve caused with your little walkabout? All the bombings you could have stopped, the invasions you could have prevented. You are making the world a more dangerous place with every minute you fight us.”

Natasha’s keen eyes stayed trained on Bucky’s face. Bucky was shaking now, he looked like he might be sick. Sweat broke out on Steve’s bare chest. He laid a hand on Bucky’s metal arm. “He’s a liar, Buck. You know he’s a liar.”

“This is the best choice, the _only_ choice,” Rumlow went on, his voice calm and coaxing. “What else are you gonna do? You’ll never be fit for normal life again, it’s sixty years too late for that. Better come with us and be useful. Otherwise all that training, all that _pain_ , what’s the point of it all if you don’t fulfill your purpose?”   

“Shut up!” Steve screamed. He nearly stood up in his fury, Bucky and Natasha tugging him back down. “You don’t know anything about him!”

Rumlow laughed. “Kid, _you_ don’t know anything about him. Your boy’s got blood on his hands that you wouldn’t believe. Blood and tears and bones and entrails...”

“You’re finished! You’re not getting him back!” 

Natasha shook Steve by the shoulder. She whispered, “Stark’s tech is no good in that confined a space. We need to draw them out.”

“Hydra’s never finished. If we don’t get our weapon, well. We’ll make a new one. You wanna volunteer Stevie-boy?”

Bucky was on his feet before Rumlow finished sing-songing Steve’s name. He punched through the plexiglass above them and streaked towards their hidden opponents. Steve and Natasha both called after him, and Steve struggled to follow but she tackled him and held on tight. Steve watched Bucky vanish into the mouth of the stairwell. There were flares of light as muzzle flashes lit up the doorway, then the loudest blast yet shook the walls around Steve and Nat, accompanied by an even brighter flash. 

Natasha was moving her mouth but no words came out. Everything sounded like he was underwater. Through the spots in his vision, Steve could make out a figure dragging itself belly-down towards them. The man looked up at them through his cracked field goggles and Natasha shot him twice in the head. She took Steve by the elbow and dragged him out into the cool night air. 

Sam met them in the driveway dressed in his old fatigues, a gear bag strapped across his back. Behind him stood Iron Man, War Machine and an older black man with an eye patch whom Steve didn’t recognize.

Natasha was talking again and the other seemed to hear her even if Steve still couldn’t.

“Flashbang, don’t know who set it off.” She looked at Stark, “How many heat signatures can you make out?”

The two armored men lowered their visers and scanned the first floor. When War Machine held up one finger, Tony nodded in agreement.

“I— ” Steve started, “I have to get Bucky.” He couldn’t make out his own voice, didn’t know if he was whispering or shouting.

Natasha and the man with the eye patch shook their heads vehemently. Sam said something he couldn’t hear, his face a mask of protest, but Steve shook him off. He limped across the lobby. The stairwell door lay, blasted off of its hinges. Steve drew a shuddering breath and stepped inside. His bare feet stepped in something warm and sticky. When he looked down he saw the man who had been the ringleader— Rumlow— lying on his back with his jaw open inhumanly wide, his skull more hole than anything else. Another Hydra agent lay face down a few steps above them. 

Bucky sat huddled in the corner, his head resting on his knees, both arms wrapped around his head. He didn’t look up when Steve called his name. Steve lowered himself gingerly to the ground next to him and stroked his hair. There was blood drying on the shell of Bucky’s ear. Bucky raised his head slightly and leaned into Steve’s touch. His eyes stayed screwed shut and Steve realized he must have been blinded by the flash grenade. Bucky’s hands trailed over Steve’s head, down his neck and his naked back, checking him for injuries. Steve slid between Bucky’s legs and held him, insinuating his narrow body against Bucky’s broader one. He drew the dirty, unshaven face against his shoulder and felt Bucky sigh deeply. For the moment neither of them could hear the soft, hushing noises Steve made as he cradled Bucky, but he murmured them all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments, I’m so glad you’re all enjoying this! It’s in the home stretch now and I’ve had a wonderful time writing it.


	24. All You See Are Sympathetic Eyes

It was Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes who remained behind to explain the attack as an attempted bombing of the hospital by a disgruntled former orderly. Stark sailed off before Fury could demand a debriefing, in a greater hurry than usual to get back to Stark Tower and Pepper. The rest drove back to SHIELD’s Manhattan headquarters. Steve had 't let go of Bucky for one instant, and it was only his continued nearness that kept the still partially blind and deafened assassin calm. Steve himself was having trouble hearing still, but the ringing in his ears worried him less than whatever the others— Sam, Natasha and the man who’d been introduced as Director Nick Fury— were saying to each other with such serious expressions.

The staff at SHIELD gave Bucky and him a respectful berth, and no one hinted at separating them. He assumed Fury must have radioed ahead. A middle-aged doctor examined them both; Steve going first at Bucky’s insistence. 

“Your fingers should stay splinted for another four weeks,” she scribbled on a white board. Across the room Bucky ground his teeth, his metal fingers leaving grooves in the stainless steel table. Steve nodded and then tapped his ears. She shook her head. “Too soon to tell, she wrote, “Agent Romanoff has the same thing. Recovery maybe: hours or days.”

Steve took the marker from her, “Permanent?” She shrugged and wrote back, “Possibly.”

Once Steve was pronounced mostly sound, and had redressed in a pair of sweatpants and SHIELD t-shirt, the doctor ushered in a team of observers for Bucky’s exam. Steve bristled and stared unflinchingly at each of them in turn before fixing his gaze on Fury. Natasha seemed on familiar, if not friendly terms with him, but Steve’s gut churned at the whole procedure. He doubted this was going to end with the doctor giving them each a Jolly Rancher and sending them home.

The scariest part was Bucky himself. He’d taken down an armed Hydra agent seconds after the flash grenade had gone off- even with his damaged senses he knew they had an audience. He just didn’t seem to care. He sat perfectly still, letting the doctor move him this way and that, taking his vitals and checking the bullet wound.

If Steve’d had any remaining doubts about his friend’s virtual indestructibility they would have been shattered when the doctor examined the entry wound on his back. She insisted on an x-ray to confirm that he hadn’t simply healed over the bullet, but no— Bucky’s serum-enhanced body had expelled the bullet (a SHIELD tech would find the bullet on the floor of Fury’s SUV during a routine cleaning) and left the new skin only slightly smoother and paler than the rest of him.

Steve slipped out of the way while the doctor examined Bucky, sidling around where he could peek at the notes the nearest agent was taking on an iPad. They had no data collected since the 1940s, and the air of excitement at observing _Captain America_ was palpable. The group as a whole gave off waves of anticipatory joy like children at a carnival. It made Steve sick. He’d spent too much time being talked over by doctors as a kid, even as an adolescent, to watch someone he loved receive similar treatment. He itched to get Bucky away from these people, to take him some place safe and private where he could hold Bucky and wait for the stone in his stomach to fade.

Finally they must have been satisfied with their recordings and Steve and Bucky were lead to a dormitory room by a giddy SHIELD agent. The room was unsettlingly reminiscent of his previous room— this one even lacked a window— but at least they would be together. When he tried the door handle and found that they were locked in Steve discovered that at this point he lacked the energy to be surprised or outraged. _Let them lock us in_ , he thought, _so long as they leave us the hell alone_. He glanced around and saw a camera mounted on the ceiling, its red light blinking steadily. His bandaged fingers kept him from flipping them off.

Bucky had stayed, unmoving, in the center of the room since Steve let go of his hand to try the door. He blinked at Steve, then shut his eyes against the glaring artificial light. Steve wasn’t sure how much of his friend’s strange apathy was shock, how much was due to his damaged senses and how much was pure nervous exhaustion like his own. Taking Bucky’s flesh and blood hand, he tugged him over to the bed and sat them both down. At last, Bucky responded- his hand guiding Steve’s up, pressing a kiss to Steve’s bare palm. Steve shimmied into his lap and Bucky laid back, taking Steve with him. His lips moved in what must have been Steve’s name.

“Buck, can you hear me?” Steve tried his voice, still absent in his own ears. Bucky nodded, than waved one hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. He ran a finger along the rim of Steve’s ear questioningly. When Steve shook his head no, Bucky cringed away from him. Steve couldn’t have that, not now, not after Bucky had come back for him. He swung one leg over Bucky, straddling his waist, and leaned over to press a line of kisses up Bucky’s neck. They both smelled like the sterile, medicinal soap they’d been given to shower with before their exams. It made Steve want to get Bucky sweaty and human-smelling again. Bucky cupped Steve's face, raising him up to look at him. A wave of fierce possessiveness passed through Steve. Bucky was his, maybe only until the morning, but for now he _was_ Steve's. 

Clumsily, he tugged his t-shirt up over his head and kicked the too-large sweat pants off, his cock already half-hard with residual adrenaline and the fact that they were finally _alone_ together. Well, alone-ish. Steve ducked down to kiss Bucky again and this time Bucky kissed him back. He ran his big hands—one warm, one cool—down Steve’s back and sides. Steve shivered under the sensation. Their tongues skated across each other and Bucky began to shift insistently beneath Steve, anxious to get his own clothes off. Steve helped him between kisses, and grinned with joy when they were skin-to-skin again. He dropped his head to worry at Bucky’s nipple with his teeth, relishing the rough tickle of Bucky’s pubic hair against his belly. He could feel trails of precum smear across his skin as Bucky arched under his touch. Steve switched from gentle bites to long laps of his tongue across Bucky’s chest. Bucky brought those gloriously thick thighs of his up and wrapped them around Steve, squeezing just hard enough to make Steve’s lungs stutter once.

Steve was a little light-headed and breathing hard. He cast a quick look around the small room, his brain lust-stupid enough to think there might magically be lube stashed somewhere. The bedside table was empty and the bathroom was too damn far and probably wouldn’t have any anyway. Of course, SHIELD had no reason to stock their temporary quarters with anything more specific than a couple of bottles of Poland Spring.

Bucky was rocking against him, sucking bruises along Steve’s collarbone, and Steve could feel vibrations in his friend’s throat as he whined for Steve’s attention. Their cocks brushed together, making Steve’s balls tighten and his head swim. He seized Bucky’s right hand, brought the palm to his mouth and licked it thoroughly before guiding it between them and coaxing Bucky to take them both in hand. Even without words Bucky caught on perfectly, stroking them both from base to tip. He pressed his thumb just below the head of Steve’s cock, drawing Steve closer to the edge of his control.

They found a rhythm together, back and forth against each other, as natural as a heartbeat. Steve’s arms buckled, too tired to hold him up anymore, and he curled against Bucky's chest. Bucky kept pumping them together. His motions grew faster, jerkier, until Steve felt the warm, wet pulse of him coming, spilling over his own hand and onto Steve. Bucky’s cock twitched against his own still hard one, Bucky panting hard but finally relaxed. 

He rolled them so that Steve lay on his back and pressed a kiss to Steve’s mouth before crawling down over the skinny body to take Steve in his mouth. Steve’s cock was sticky with Bucky’s come and he lapped it carefully off with long strokes of his tongue. The sight of it went straight to Steve’s groin and he shot off the first time Bucky took him all the way in, working his fingers desperately in Bucky’s silky hair. Bucky swallowed it all, then lay with his head resting on Steve’s thigh, stroking his metal hand in lazy figure-eights across Steve’s flat stomach. 

Steve could feel himself falling asleep and he tugged Bucky up by the shoulders, wrapping those big arms around him like a cloak. Bucky rested his chin on the top of Steve’s head and stilled. It was a gesture Steve usually resented but found he didn’t mind so much with Bucky. Anything that kept Bucky close was alright with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Steve finds out the bargain Bucky made with SHIELD and Fury explains his plans for them...


	25. To His Silent World and His Tiny Room

Bucky was awake but lay very still. At some point during the night they had switched positions and now Steve lay draped over Bucky’s back like a baby monkey. Steve’s bandaged hand rested over the scar tissue where his prosthetic met flesh. The sound of the door swinging open put him instantly on his guard. He jerked the blanket tighter over both of them and stretched himself out, shielding Steve’s sleeping form from view as a SHIELD agent stepped inside.

“Breakfast is in half an hour,” the man said, depositing a stack of clothes on the side table, “Colonel Fury will see you both at eight for debriefing.”

Bucky nodded and the man backed out of the room, shutting but not locking the door this time. He could hear just fine, felt just fine. He always felt just fine unless someone wanted him not too. Behind him, Steve snuffled and shimmied down further under the blanket. When he turned and lifted the sheet to look at Steve— still sound asleep and with a tiny crust of drool in the corner of his mouth— a pain as sudden and overpowering as the flashbang stabbed through him. Steve's bruises were brilliant feathers of color, his splinted hand cradled to his chest. Bucky fled to the little ensuite bathroom and fell, dry-heaving, in front of the toilet. Nothing came up and after a minute he turned on the shower and climbed shakily under the spray.

Today was going to hurt. He’d bargained for that hurt, welcomed it, when it meant saving Steve’s life. And he’d gotten so much more than he deserved— Steve was alive, if not entirely unharmed, and he didn’t hate Bucky. He had gotten to spend one more night with Steve. It was an embarrassment of riches, really. He had no right to complain at being separated from Steve now. The cold water grounded him, slowed his rapidly beating heart, and Bucky stepped out, dried himself briefly, and returned to Steve.

Without the floating black holes in his vision and pain from the light no longer winding his optic nerve into piano wire he could see Steve clearly again. The night before, holding that beloved face he could see Steve only dimly, and he must have a clear picture in his head, for however long these memories remained. Bucky paused in the bathroom door, listening carefully and yes— he could hear Steve’s shallow breathing from here. They’d be pleased with his recovery, he thought, at the same time aware of the traitorous wish that he’d been permanently or even temporarily incapacitated so he might have just a little more time before they put a gun in his hands and sent him away.

He hesitated when he saw the clothes they’d sent. Plain jeans and t-shirt for Steve but for him… It was his old uniform, Captain America’s uniform. The old design had been reworked in the new, field-tested synthetic materials that his Hydra fatigues had been made of. Bucky slid the new uniform on feeling more ashamed and fake than he had since his USO days. He was glad there was no mirror in the room. He stepped into the boots and, with nothing else to delay him, knelt to wake Steve.

Gently, he cupped the back of Steve’s head in his palm. The gold of the smaller man’s hair against Bucky’s silver hand shone in striking contrast. Steve rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes. He smiled sleepily, then taking Bucky’s appearance, sat up and wolf-whistled. Bucky blushed and ducked his head, smiling for the first time since the SHIELD agent had left.

* * *

Steve held Bucky’s hand all the way from their quarters to the canteen, let go long enough to pick at a muffin, then held it again on the elevator ride up to see Nick Fury. The Captain America uniform had been hot at first, but the more he saw Fury's minions in their dark suits eye-balling Bucky like he was a character at Disney World whose whole existence was to entertain and make their lives easier, the angrier he got. Bucky’d had the thousand-yard stare since Steve woke up that morning and despite being clean and combed and dressed like a national icon he looked more like the homeless vets Steve was used to seeing than he had the first time they’d met. Not being able to hear what everyone was saying didn’t help things either. So Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand and ignored the desperate, hurried vibes that hung around Fury’s minions. Captain America was willing to slow his pace to keep in step with Steve’s slight limp, so they could damn well wait for Steve too.

They were ushered into the poshest office Steve had ever seen, and one of the younger looking SHIELD agents handed Steve a tablet open to a speech-to-text app. At least they hadn’t dragged him up here to sit around guessing what would happen next. A trim, clean-cut man in his forties stood against one wall, arms folded. Sam and Natasha were already there and Steve relaxed a fraction at the sight of them. Across from them, on the other side of a polished mahogany desk that probably cost more than Steve made in a year, sat Nick Fury. 

Steve had not paid much attention to anyone but Bucky the previous night. It was his first opportunity to examine the mysterious man in charge in detail. He had the air of a man used to over-awing people without trying, the kind of man whose coat would billow dramatically whether or not there was any discernible draft. Instinctively Steve wanted to mouth-off, he always did when someone tried to intimidate him but for Bucky's sake he would try to be a rational adult. Giving respect and demanding respect, like Natasha. It lasted until Fury began to speak.

“Thank you for coming. I want to assure all of you that we’re taking your continued safety very seriously. Agent Romanoff and Sergeant Wilson, you may return to your home with the precautions we’ve previously discussed. Meanwhile, Mr. Rogers— ” here the director removed a page from a file marked classified and slid it across to Steve, “We’ve shortlisted some safe houses for you, and a protective detail, for the duration of our next project.”

“I can’t stay in a safe house!” Steve protested. Fury raised his one visible eyebrow at the interruption. “Excuse me, sir, but it would be a waste of your resources. I’ll be fine back in my own apartment.”

Fury leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “We’re about to undertake an extremely crucial mission, one that’s already been compromised once by your capture. Turning you loose in New York at this point would be foolhardy and I’m not about to jeopardize everything again.”

Steve could feel his chin doing the stubborn jut it always did when he was about to argue with someone bigger than himself. 

Fury ignored him and went on, “I need Captain Barnes fully engaged in the task at hand. I can’t have his attention divided, worrying that you’re going to get yourself killed.”

It hit Steve like a punch to the gut. He stared down at the tablet screen, hoping stupidly that he’d misread the man’s words. Maybe they’d been mis-transcribed. But no, he knew what it meant when they’d locked them in last night, when they dressed Bucky up like that this morning. They were taking Bucky away from him. Steve felt the early warning signs of tears in his throat and behind his eyes. He wouldn't cry in front of these people, he _couldn't_. He bit his lip to stave them off.

“How long do you think it’ll take?” he asked, “To get the rest of them? I can wait.” He was backpedalling now but he didn’t care. “I’ll wait at the safe house, and then when you’ve got them all Bucky and I can go home, right?” He looked at Bucky. His friend kept his eyes on the polished desktop. “Right?” The looks of pity he was getting from Sam and Nat and even the stranger in the corner were infuriating and frightening. Steve exploded.

“You can’t keep him on a leash forever! You have no right! Tell them, Buck.” Bucky looked at him blankly.

“I gave them my word, Steve,” he said, “I have to make this right.”

Steve shook his head. He turned on Fury. “You can’t just take someone’s whole life. You’re no fucking better than them!” he spat.

“Do you have any idea what’s been going on around here?” Fury cut in coolly. “Of course you don’t, so let me tell you. Last night, fifteen minutes after the Hydra team sent to abduct you failed to radio in, Alexander Pierce disappeared from his Long Island home. He destroyed or absconded with a number of classified files, patents, plans and chemical formulae. As well as Mr. Pierce, fifty-three percent of current and former SHIELD agents were also reported AWOL this morning. A few more offered excuses for their sudden absence that wouldn’t fool a high school english teacher. Hydra is calling its people in, Mr. Rogers. They are preparing to go to the goddamn mattresses.”

He exchanged a glance with the man beside him and went on. “And by pulling their people, they have made it pretty goddamn clear not only how fucked SHIELD was, they’ve also gutted the confidence of the few agents I have left. And now I have the pleasurable task of finding out which if any of my remaining team can be trusted. The number of people I can rely on is dropping faster than the wild population of the Bengal tiger. I need Captain America, SHIELD needs Captain America. Now, do you understand?”

Steve nodded dumbly. Beside him, Bucky squeezed his good hand once and slowly let go.


	26. I May Be Obliged To Defend Every Love, Every Ending

After twenty minutes of PT Steve’s hand was starting to cramp. It had been five weeks, two days, nine hours and fourteen minutes since he’d bidden Bucky a surreally formal goodbye in Fury’s office. They’d been given a moment alone, the others all filing out into the hallway discussing the upcoming plans, but neither of them had found the right thing to say. Probably there was no right thing to say, only varying degrees of wrong. Steve could read in the set of Bucky’s shoulders, the twitch in his hands, the tense set of his jaw that he blamed himself for everything, that he saw all of Steve’s losses piled at his feet. 

Steve wanted to say that it was all worth it, that he wanted every one. If it meant having Bucky, _belonging_ to Bucky, he’d take the craziness and the conspiracies and the danger. He wanted to beg Bucky to finish it quickly and come back to him. He wanted to say that Bucky had brought him back to life. He wanted to reassure him that he’d look after Jean Harlow. He wanted to say that losing Bucky to SHIELD was worse than never meeting him at all. He wanted to say a thousand things to claim and comfort and remind. But all he said was, “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

They’d shaken hands, Bucky trailing his metal fingers gently over Steve’s splinted ones.

Bucky gave a startled laugh and shook his head. He leaned in close and said into Steve's ear “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Then he was marching off between four black-clad, solemn-faced agents and Steve had lost his chance. 

Sam had lain a reassuring hand on Steve’s shoulder and murmured something about how they were all going to do their parts to finish Hydra once and for all. Steve’s face must have betrayed his disgust that _his_ part was running and hiding, leaving his friends to do the real fighting. He hadn’t thought his hatred of Pierce and his ilk could be any greater. He’d been wrong.

The earnest young agents who spoke to him assured him that they were searching for the _perfect_ safe house. They’d find him somewhere he’d be able to explore and be himself, keep up with his art, somewhere he’d build a new life and be happy. Partly, Steve suspected, it was so they could feel less guilty about stealing everything worthwhile in his life, and partly so there would be no Bucky-shaped void for their soldier to slip back into if there was ever a lull in his duties. Meanwhile he was a sort of royal hostage at SHIELD headquarters; well-treated but alone, pampered but entirely dependent on his hosts.

His PT was being handled by an expert he could never have afforded on his own, and when his hearing hadn’t fully recovered he was fitted with a state-of-the-art, blue-tooth compatible hearing aid, but they wouldn’t tell him anything about Bucky's whereabouts or well being. A box of pricey art supplies was delivered to him, but he had no access to a phone. They wouldn’t even let him call Eunji, to thank her and let her know that she’d probably saved his life. He’d drawn her a card instead, without any real hope of being able to send it. Someone brought him Jean Harlow one morning and that afternoon they’d asked him to film a quick message to Bucky, one where he smiled and showed off his newly healed hand and explained what very good care SHIELD was taking of him.

There was no answering video from Bucky, and Steve spent his days on a rotating wheel of anger at Hydra and SHIELD, at Pierce and Fury and Bucky and himself.

He spent most of his time concocting elaborate schemes to escape from SHIELD only to discard them later during gut-clenching panic attacks or nightmares of getting Bucky killed with his misplaced heroics. He hadn’t gotten Bucky killed before, he had _helped_ he remembered fiercely, and Bucky had trusted Steve enough to promise they would stay together, fight their battles together. But by now he’d seen too many of the old film reels of Captain America that everyone here was so fond of, with Bucky looking happy and young, confident and carefree. Maybe being that man again was better for him than being with Steve.

So Steve lay in the stiff, white sheets of his SHIELD dormitory bed, resting his fingers and staring up at the ceiling. He’d been provided with plenty of decent clothes in his size but rarely changed out of sweats these days. It was late afternoon and he’d been taking another unnecessary nap when a booming male voice and the determined click of high heels startled him awake. All five-feet-nine-inches of impossibly coiffed Pepper Potts stood in his doorway. The man behind her, beaming at Steve over her shoulder, could only have been Thor.

“Steve,” Pepper smiled, “It’s good to see you. I hope your hand is better.” She stepped in and waved at her companion. “This is Thor.”

Steve stood and gazed up at the big man, feeling like a chihuahua next to a mastiff. Was he supposed to shake hands? Bow? The guy was some kind of alien royalty, wasn’t he? His fingers were still a bit tender and Steve was reluctant to test his guest’s superhuman grip. He ended up smiling and nodding like an idiot. “Hi.”

“Greetings, friend Rogers.” The voice was as handsome and golden as the rest of him.

“What—ah— what are you doing here?” Steve asked.

Pepper seated herself at Steve’s desk and pulled out a laptop. “I wanted to have another consultation before they whisk you off into witness protection. If you’re still willing?”

“And I accompanied Ms. Potts to meet a Midgardian artist and healer of such renown,” added Thor.

Steve blushed but met Pepper’s gaze. “Of course. I want to do it,” he shook his head, not wanting to let his bitterness ruin this for her, “It might be a long time before I get to do another one. Apparently it’s too specific a trade for me to keep up while Hydra might be looking for me.”

She frowned in sympathy. “None of this has been fair for you, Steve.” 

“Truly,” said Thor, “And you have borne it with great heart.”

Pepper powered up the computer and turned the screen towards Steve. “Do you think you could manage something like this for my chest piece?” It’s an aerial shot of the New York skyline, the silhouette of Avengers’ Tower vaulting proudly in the center. Pepper stroked the sleek lines, “It’s my baby.”

It was strange and probably misplaced, but the old excitement surged through Steve. He could already see it: the main stalk of the tower down her sternum, the arch stretching across the midline of her breast, the rest of the city scape outlined in the background, a flesh-and-blood etching of this woman and her mark on the famous city.

“Yeah,” Steve felt the first genuine smile since Bucky’s departure creep over his face, “I can do that.”

She smiled back and took a small device like a cell phone out of her purse and set it on the desk. A quick press of her manicured finger and a green light began flashing.

“We have to keep this quick. They may not be listening right now, but eventually they’ll check in again and wonder why all they can hear is white noise,” she said. Her voice held the same calm, self-contained calm but her eyes were bright and eager. “Tony’s been keeping me briefed on everything that’s happening with Captain Barnes and I know how…” she made a frustrated little huff, “hard it can be when someone you love is out risking his life, and you can’t even be angry because it’s all in a good cause.” The mention of Bucky made Steve’s throat tighten.

“Friend Rogers,” Thor said intently, “We have a plan to finish this great enemy of Midgard’s and return your beloved to you.”

Steve shut his eyes. He didn’t want to hope, couldn’t hope. “Really?”

“Thor has a friend who can find anyone, anywhere on the planet.”

“Like SHIELD?” he asked bitterly.

“No,” said Thor, “SHIELD sees only what it looks for.”

“Heimdall’s found all of them, Pierce and everybody. Every single Hydra agent left. And we’re going to take them out, all at once. Shock and awe.”

“It won’t be enough,” Steve shook his head. “Even without Hydra, Fury won't let him go, he needs Captain America to keep SHIELD together. He needs his poster boy.”

“Without Hydra he won’t have the leverage to keep Bucky,” Pepper’s face was deadly serious. “You haven't seen twitter or CNN, but people are talking about Captain America's miraculous return. There's a considerable number of people out there saying enough is enough. Captain Barnes deserves an honorable discharge like any other soldier.”

“There comes a time for all warriors when they grow weary of battle. For your friend that time came long ago, he simply needs someone to school him in the ways of peace,” put in Thor.

Pepper went on, “That’s why we need you, because he’s going to need someone to come back to.”

It felt so dangerous, this eager, insistent voice telling him that it could work. Steve’s biggest fear throbbed in his temple.

“What if I’m not enough? What if he wants to be Captain America again?”

“Oh Steve,” she sighed, “Tony’s seen it, I’ve seen it. We’ve all seen it. You know he’s been fighting for you since the moment the two of you met.”

Steve thought of the grimy, lost hobo he’d befriended. He thought of Bucky sneaking into the hospital to make sure he was alright, then helping him home and looking after him, of Bucky comforting him, needing him, teasing him, protecting him, loving him.

“How soon can I have him back?”


	27. I Said Be Careful, His Bowtie Is Really A Camera

Bucky lay awake, exhausted but simmering with too many stray thoughts to let him sleep. Today had marked the sixth Hydra cell eliminated, the fortieth Hydra agent killed and the twenty-second time he’d nearly run from his new handlers. Every night his mind scratched itself raw with images of Steve, and by dawn he’d fallen asleep with the resolve to get away from SHIELD as soon as possible— let them fight their own battles, he could take care of himself and Steve. Every morning he rose with a plan to evade them, return to HQ and run off with Steve, to somewhere no one knew them, somewhere they could be left alone. And every time the moment came to make his break, Bucky froze. Between him and every crowded bus station or unbarred window stood Pierce and Rumlow and Steve with his swollen, splinted fingers and his ears trickling blood.

So he stayed another day and another sleepless night. The only place worth running to would be back to that alley, all those weeks ago, to find the Bucky Barnes who’d taken a package of cat food from a stranger and tell him to leave Steve Rogers the fuck alone.  


* * *

  
In a glass paneled conference room in Avengers’ Tower an interactive world map twinkled with blue lights; one for each Hydra agent across the globe.

“Almost looks pretty,” murmured Bruce.

“Pretty as a PET scan,” said Pepper, “Question is: what are we going to do about it?”

The five Avengers and Pepper were huddled in the adjoining lounge, formerly used by Tony as a naptime hidey-hole back when he’d been required at board meetings. It was cozier and further away from the thousands of eerie, steadily burning lights.

“You’re sure that’s all of them?” asked Tony.

“Heimdall has looked this world over twice. There’s no one in your enemies’ ranks who could hide from him.”

“This is some George Orwell level creepiness going on here,” said Rhodey. 

“Hardly worse than your own rulers’ constant watch,” scoffed Sif. 

“Fair enough,” Rhodey held up a placating hand, “I know I’m trying to fix a broken system from the inside. But with regards to that,” he jerked a thumb at the map. “It’s not as many as we’d feared, but it’s an awful lot for six people to take on— if it is six people?” He glanced at Pepper.

She nodded. “Asking for help from Asgard was my idea. I’m in this all the way and technically,” she smiled briefly, “I’ve got my own powers now so I might even have a better claim to be here than you or Tony.”

“Great, welcome aboard. That still doesn’t help our odds a whole lot. Stamping them out one at a time is going to take a long time.”

“Pardon the interruption,” came Jarvis’ voice from the wall speaker, “Agent Romanoff and her entourage have infiltrated the building and are currently en route to this floor.”

“Shit,” Tony swung his legs off the arm of the sofa and stood, flicking a hand at the map which instantly went dark. “Everyone act natural, we’re just a bunch of buds hanging out. Everyone pretend I just said something hilarious.”

“I thought you liked Romanoff,” asked Rhodey. Tony and Pepper exchanged a look.

“We do,” answered Pepper, “But considering SHIELD's position on Captain America, we’re thought it better to keep them out of this.”

“I’m kind of SHIELD,” said Rhodey. 

Tony shook his head, “You’re military, but we forgive you. Even if you do work for people who’d like to keep my brain in a jar.”

“Don’t be silly,” came Natasha’s voice from the door, “They’d upload you into a computer. No one uses jars anymore.” Flanking her stood Sam, Peggy and Clint.

“Sit,” offered Tony, waving a hand expansively at the leather couch, “I’ll have Jarvis order a pizza. Nat, who are your friends?”

“I know Pepper and Thor spoke with Steve,” Natasha’s tone was businesslike. “The way they're going about it now, SHIELD is wiping out Hydra about as efficiently as an exterminator solving a roach problem with fencing foil. I know you can do more damage, and we want to help. So what’s the plan?”

Everyone stared at each other. 

“We want Captain Barnes away from SHIELD,” Rhodey said finally. 

“Good.” Natasha smiled for the first time. 

“That’s what we want too,” said Peggy, “It’s not right for them to keep him like that. The man's sacrificed more than anyone alive. Or dead too, I'll wager. He and Steve deserve a chance to have a normal life together.”

Bruce spoke up, “Thor’s been able to track all the remaining Hydra agents, but like you said—there’s too many of them, and they’re too scattered.”

“Like saccopharyngiforms,” added Sif looking at Thor who nodded in agreement. She explained, “They’re a pest creature native to Vanaheim. Very long bodies and they travel end-to-end, so wherever you strike it’s impossible to tell how many are left.”

“Yeesh.” Clint grimaced, “Suddenly I feel better about roaches.”

“So we need to take them all out at once. Basically, no Hydra left behind,” said Sam, “But how do we do that? What about all those fancy suits of armor?”

“Uh-uh,” answered Tony, “I may be a wealthy pack rat but even I don’t have that many extras lying around.”

Natasha took a quick breath and spoke, “Project Insight. It’s nearly operational and it’s tailor made for this. A coordinated, simultaneous drone strike on all of them.”

“Project Insight is an urban legend,” said Rhodey, “It’s something the NSA cooked up to make themselves look better.” Natasha looked him solidly in the eye and slowly shook her head no. “Goddamit,” Rhodey sighed.

“Hold on though,” put in Bruce, “Isn’t the fact that it’s not a myth exactly why we’re not trusting SHIELD? It’s never been used, if we… take it out for a test drive and manage to eradicate a decades-old terrorist group, they’ll never stop using it.”

“So we make sure it’s a one time deal,” said Tony, “Use it to stop Hydra, then destroy it. It’s my tech they used to build it, I’d probably end up blowing it up one day anyhow.”

“They’re not gonna like it,” said Sam.

“No,” agreed Natasha, “Captain Barnes has been a secret weapon for almost a century, and before that he was a secret experiment. Insight is just the next incarnation of a system that’s been rotten for too long. It’s time to take their weapons away, all their weapons.”


	28. And I Must Be What I Must Be And Face Tomorrow

In the tense, early morning hours of prep and waiting Tony’s head buzzed with nervous energy. He found Pepper in their room, changing into a pair of black yoga pants and a sports bra. She stood topless in front of the mirror briefly, studying her reflection. Tony padded up behind her and leaned his chin on her shoulder, he had to arch slightly up onto his toes to reach. His arms snaked around her belly. 

“Talk to me about something good. Did you actually talk to Rogers about the tat? I mean, if all this goes as swimmingly as we hope, unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“It’s going to be the skyline,” she said, “With this, the Tower, right here.” She took his hand and traced it up her sternum and over the center of her smooth left breast.

Tony frowned at her in the mirror. “You’ll get the Tower, but you wouldn’t even consider matching arc reactors?” 

“All that hard work, all that endless wrangling of zoning boards and contractors. It’s my baby.”

“Well, technically my baby too, so— ”

“Your baby?” she scoffed, “You did about 12% of the work, you did the _fun_ parts.”

“Well maybe I should do 12% of the work here too,” he traced the spot on her chest again, “I can draw, and I’m good with machines. I would be the Monet of tattoo artists.”

“Anthony Edward Stark, you are not coming anywhere near me with a tattoo gun. And impressionist is not the style I’m going for.”

“I trusted you to go digging around in my insides,” he protested.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

He grew serious for a moment. “Pep, do you think this is the right thing to do?”

Pepper turned and put her arms around him in return. “I think we’ll only know that when it’s over.”

“If the ends justifies the means? Christ, I hate that argument. I’ve heard it from everyone who ever wanted something from me. Or my dad.” 

“They’re not our means, you may have designed those drones but you didn’t build them for this. We’re taking them from people who would do terrible things. Captain Barnes is worth saving, you know that.”

“You like him?" Tony mustered a smirk. “He is cute but I don’t think Rogers is the sharing kind.”

“I have certain empathy for the fellow owner of a frankly stupid, alliterative nickname. It’s a lonely road.” She stroked his temples where the dark hair was just beginning to show a little gray.  


“Dad always said the best weapon is the one you only have to fire once. I wonder if he felt the same way about Barnes when they started all this. If it works we’ll be ridding the world of two great threats. If we fail—”

“If we fail to take Insight down today, we’ll just keep trying. We’re the Avengers, it’s what we do.”

“And if people get hurt in the meantime?”

Pepper took him by the shoulders and pulled back to look him in the face. “If anyone is the right person to do this it’s you, Tony.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“Whoever controls Insight will have a ridiculous amount of power. That person could conquer the world. You don’t give a damn about power, not like that. When Rome was facing invasion they named one of their generals absolute dictator and he saved the city. And then he gave all that power back and went off to live his life. Honestly, if it was just me in charge, I could see myself thinking ‘maybe I can fix this too’, why not ISIS, why not North Korea? But you—you’ll throw all that power away.”

Tony preened a little as she spoke and she flicked him on the chest. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not Saint Stark, you simply lack the attention span. If you were a medieval king you’d disappear into your forge for a year and come back to find your kingdom had become an autonomous republic.”

“Well it’s still noteworthy,” he smirked, “Pepper Potts needs Tony Stark around to ensure restraint. I should have it engraved on something.”

* * *

The STRIKE team landed on the beach an hour before dawn. The agents scuttled for cover and huddled up once they were within the tree line. They waited, exchanging nervous glances until Agent Dawson nudged Bucky. “Cap? We proceed as planned?”

It felt like complicated dance whose steps he’d forgotten—giving orders, leading missions—Bucky longed to slip back into being the Winter Soldier. If they wanted to use him fine; point him at the target and stand back. But they wanted Captain America. They wanted the good, the brave, the incorruptible. He’d tried pretending they were the Commandos. He remembered those interactions, what he’d done and how he’d known if his plan was right or wrong, but he kept waiting for one of them to bark an order at him so he could show them how cooperative he could be.

And there was the Mission. A message had come through that SHIELD had traced Alexander Pierce to a villa in Grand Cayman. SHIELD wanted him alive, and they wanted the world to see the stalwart Captain America apprehending the greatest traitor the country had ever known. So Bucky had a couple hundred yards in which to find a thought that would keep him from breaking the man in half. Think of Steve was out, not when he thought of Pierce breaking those thin, clever fingers that brought so much good into the world. Neither did thoughts of SHIELD or Fury or his country. He knew he owed them his loyalty, but that loyalty was as fragile as a soap bubble against Pierce.

He couldn’t delay any longer, the team was growing restless. “Proceed as planned.”

“Right!” repeated Dawson, “Remember, shoot first with everyone except Pierce. He comes in alive.”

They broke into formation, ducking and weaving through the trees towards the villa. He had to keep on pace, had to stay ahead of his men, but his footsteps kept faltering. Bucky began to count them in his head, a staccato cycle of _1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8_. By the time they were within sight of the glowing windows of Pierce’s retreat the numbers had shuffled themselves _3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8_.


	29. Freedom Is a Dark Road When You’re Walking It Alone

There were eight of them, including Bucky, enough to take a building this size by stealth easily enough. But not this easily. By the time the reptile part of Bucky’s brain told him something wasn’t right here the team had already split up. He was paired with Nuñez; broad and lively and relentless cheater at cards. They were on the top story when the sound of gunfire reached them— not the rapid exchange of bullets expected in a raid, but staccato blasts.

“The fuck is going on with you guys?” Nuñez hissed into his earpiece as they rounded another corner, “Shit, Cap— I can’t raise anybody!”

In the luminescent green of his night vision, Bucky could make out a figure limping across the front lawn, dragging a second figure behind. Another shot and the limper collapsed. There was static in Bucky’s earpiece and static vibrating in his lungs. He looked up and realized that he’d dragged Nuñez in to an alcove, out of sight of the window. 

“Cap? You okay?” The man’s voice wavered but his eyes on Bucky’s face were determined. “We have to find the others.”

Quite, cautious steps approached their hiding place. “Cap?” came a voice, low and urgent.

At the sound of it, Nuñez rose. “Ward?” he whispered, stepping towards his teammate. Ward shot him in the gut and Nuñez stumbled forward. Bucky flew towards them, catching Ward’s throat in his metal hand, their wounded companion sandwiched between them.

“Let go,” snapped Ward, “Or the next hole goes through both of you, might not matter to you but it’s a pretty big deal to him.”

The three men swayed for a moment, locked together in a weird, ungainly waltz. Bucky tried to make his eyes go hard and steely, tried to recapture that avenging-angel fury he’d felt when he’d rescued Steve. But he’d been spinning like a broken compass for the past weeks and now his crew are dead because of the traitor _he’d_ failed even to look for. Bucky uncurled his hand from Ward’s throat and stepped back. The man spun Nuñez to face Bucky, raising the gun from the injured man’s bloody abdomen to his throat.

“That way,” he ordered Bucky, jerking his head towards the end of the hall, “Go.”

In Bucky's patchwork memory Pierce loomed like the carved face of Jefferson on Mount Rushmore. He had forgotten the aging face in the space of a few days. Only the shrewd eyes remained the same . When the three men entered his office—Bucky first, Ward driving him like a gruesome shepherd and marching an increasingly blood Nuñez in front of him—Pierce scarcely glanced up. 

He waved a half-drained brandy at Ward, “Enough Agent, you were told to stand down.” The tone was a command but there was no force behind it and Bucky could not reconcile that voice with a man whose softest words carried the weight of electric shock and broken bones. 

Ward’s face contracted in a grim rictus, unlike his casually confident sadism. Bucky saw for the first time that he was afraid. “It was a bullshit order. You think, after all this time, I’m going to swallow the tooth without even asking why? When I’m already on your goddamn doorstep with the Asset?” Ward grated at Pierce, he pressed the gun barrel against Nuñez’s throat hard enough to make him gag.

“It was for your own good, a mark of respect now that it’s all done,” Pierce shook his head wearily but his subordinate’s rudeness had returned some of the steel to his eyes. “He—” here Pierce nodded at Bucky, “Didn’t even get a cyanide capsule. But forgive me for thinking you’d like to go out on your own terms.”

“Oh, believe me, when the time comes I intend to,” scoffed Ward, “But just because you’re a dried up, useless old man who can’t do anything except run and hide doesn’t mean it’s over. Cut off one head and two more—”

“Will you _shut up_?” Pierce downed the rest of his drink and gave Bucky a put-upon ‘you-see-what-I-have-to-deal-with?’ roll of the eyes. Bucky, for his part, was stone. He stood stock-still with his gun trained on Ward. He was no leader, no Captain America, not with his team scattered dead across the grounds, but he wasn’t the Asset again, not yet. The longer he kept still, the longer he could put off that awful, inevitable moment when he became that again.

“God,” Pierce went on, “Schmidt may have been a visionary but I could strangle him for popularizing that stupid, stupid line. _Of course_ we’re done. You think I say that lightly? I’ve been doing this for forty years. Hydra’s been cauterized, just like the legend. Or did you skip that lesson?”

Sweat dripped down Ward’s face. “It’s not possible.”

“Regimes fall everyday,” Pierce gave Bucky a knowing little smile, “Isn’t that right, Soldier?”

Bucky would have fled right then if it weren't for Nuñez, but he’d never left a comrade behind, not once, and it was a hard habit to break. “See for yourself,” said Pierce turning his laptop to face Ward with one manicured hand. “The Avengers hijacked Insight an hour before you landed. There’s been radio silence from— ” he craned his neck to check the screen, “Eighty-five percent of our operatives and I’ll wager there’s an impending drone strike on the rest of us. Possibly as early as oh… fifteen minutes from now.” Someone’s breathing hitched. Bucky couldn’t be sure if it was him, Ward or Nuñez.

“Let him go, Ward,” Pierce drawled, pouring himself another drink, “Killing him would be a waste.”

In response, Ward’s slack face puffed into the beginnings of a snarl. His hand shook on the grip of the gun. 

“Protocol: discontent,” snapped Pierce, suddenly tense and engaged, “Shoot him.”  
And Bucky shot him.

It was a clean shot, through the back of the skull, the bullet entering and exiting neatly through the hindbrain. Ward lost coordination, breath control and and the ability to swallow before the bullet lodged in the hardwood of the doorframe. He slid to the floor, dragging the injured Nuñez with him like a sea monster. Bucky wanted to reach for his teammate, apply pressure to the man’s wound. It occurred to him only when he tried and found he couldn’t, that shooting Ward had not been a voluntary action. Terror sped the blood through his veins at breakneck speeds.

“You know it was nothing personal, not for me.” Pierce’s tone had returned to its enervated mildness. “I don’t even like inflicting pain.” 

And oh how that statement itself hurt like a full-body slap; images of the chair, the chamber and Steve’s fingers swollen and purple like eggplants rushing up to meet him. Bucky wanted so badly to move, to drive his vibranium thumb and forefinger into Pierce’s unfairly blue eyes. His muscles remained still but he could swear that his stomach, testicles, kidneys, intestines, _everything_ else throbbed in sympathy with his frozen, frustrated limbs.

“Pain is just a tool,” Pierce continued, “Like fear or greed. It’s a tool I’ve never used lightly. The men who delighted in your pain were dead long before you and I met, so what was I supposed to do? What would _you_ have done in my place, hmm?” He wagged a finger at Bucky. “Everyone always thinks they know how they’ll react in a desperate situation, but no one really does. Do you know how many wars I’ve prevented, how many genocides I’ve curbed because I had the courage to look at you and say ‘no, his work is not done’? You think I didn’t want to be the man who saved Captain America and set him free? Of course I did. Hell— I grew up reading your comics! But if you find a hammer lying in the street where your house is falling down, do you leave it there? No, you take it and you use it for good.” Pierce sighed heavily. “Not that anyone ever gets credit or gratitude. And now, let’s just say that entropy is the natural order of the universe and I for one am glad I won’t be around to see what this world comes to without Hydra.”

He swirled his drink before draining the glass a second time and setting it down on the desk with a click. “But what to do about you? I could kill you, that might be the kindest thing, if I wanted to be kind. Or—I’m not a spiteful man, but I could leave you with any instructions I like. I could send you back to SHIELD, back to your friends and have you cut all their throats.”

Bucky still wasn’t moving, nothing as definitive as that, but his jaw tightened on his tongue until his mouth filled with blood.

“Come here.” Bucky went and knelt before Pierce as he was directed. He could command his eyes to blink and his lungs to breathe for the moment, but that was all. Eye contact was not allowed, too assertive, too challenging to attempt with a handler, but now he held Pierce’s gaze as the old man laid a hand on Bucky’s shoulder in something like benediction. He reached for a second tumbler, sharing out the last of the brandy into it and his own glass. From the narrow top drawer of his desk he took a bottle of white pills, dropping one into each glass, then tucking the bottle into a pouch on Bucky’s belt. The pills fizzed in the amber liquid. 

His eyes were still on Pierce’s face, so Bucky could only feel Pierce take his metal wrist and press the second glass into his hand. “You were there at the true beginning of Hydra, you _were_ the true beginning of Hydra. We will never truly be extinguished while you survive.” Pierce downed the contents of his glass and coughed once. “But I’ll leave that decision in your hands; my gift to you. Your first choice as a free man,” his chest began to heave, “Protocol: discontent suspended.”

Bucky collapsed into himself, spilling the second drink and wrapping his human arm around his body. Above him, Pierce’s hands spasmed, his head jerked like a bird’s. Bucky crab-walked away from him quickly as the man’s movements sped up, then stilled. He crawled over to Agent Nuñez, felt the man’s skin chilled with shock and blood loss. Bucky bandaged and carried his last remaining STRIKE team member to safety, blessedly grateful for something to do in the swirling chaos Pierce had left. He shut down all forward thinking beyond the immediate: stop the bleeding, get to the plane, contact his SHIELD CO, get to safety. _Don’t think about the last hour, don’t think about the next day, don’t think about the little bottle of pills still tucked in his belt. Don’t wonder why Pierce had spared him, don’t wonder if he’d really been spared at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about Pierce. 
> 
> I can easily see sadistic, power-mad Hydra leaders using Bucky throughout his time as the Winter Soldier, I’m just not sure that’s what Pierce was. Not that it makes him any less depraved than Zola or Schmidt or Lukin or any of the others, just that his motives weren’t the same as theirs. He may or may not have been the kind of man who’d *make* a Winter Soldier, but he’s certainly the kind of man who’d use him. And nothing can make a bad person feel more powerful than pretending to be good, which most people believe themselves to be anyway.
> 
> He deserved a lot worse than he got, but that’s too often the way things go.


	30. Chapter 30

So I'm really really sorry I've let this go unfinished for so long. I've had this mental block for months now that's kept me from doing so many things I want to and I'm finally making progress getting past it. I'm really frustrated and ashamed to have come so close to the end and then balked but I'm writing again and my goal is to have the last chapter finished by February 16, 2016. So one whole goddamn year later. Sorry again and thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story and been supportive even though it's been left for so long.


End file.
